


High Risk, High Reward

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BAMF Stiles, Child Abuse in relation to Isaac Lahey, Con Artists, DO NOT TRY AT HOME (duh), Don't look too hard at this science, Dubious Morality, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Magical Realism, Medical Experimentation, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-lethal drug use, Poisoning, The drugs in question being poison, Touch-Starved, VERY GREY MORALITY, Violence, Wolfsbane Use, it's not too graphic, self experimentation, the drugs are also opium mixtures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-09-24 14:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: If there were three things to remember about Stiles Stilinski it was that he only deals in cash, he doesn’t belong to any Pack, and no one is allowed to touch. If Stiles were to remember three things it would be to always maintain eye contact, show a little skin, and let his reputation speak for itself.History will remember Stiles many different ways. The infamous Las Vegas mage. The man who put a price on peace of mind. The hungry kid who asked a simple question:What would Arnold Rothstein do?





	1. How Much Does Peace of Mind Cost?

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Grey morality, referenced child abuse (Isaac Lahey & and his father, it's not that graphic and is dealt with), and non-consensual drug use (as in, a dubious character is drugged with... the understanding that something magical is making him feel that way).

Las Vegas lights twinkled against long stretches of dark windows. The room was sleek and minimal, a bed pushed close to the windows, a desk, night table, two tall cabinets, and several bookshelves. The bathroom was on the right side of the room, the walls covered in white tile and lit with unflattering fluorescents. The floor was concrete for easy clean-up since the typical tenant could only stand living in the Block for a few months. 

Stiles Stilinski was not the typical tenant. 

On the left side of the room was a door. It was the only entrance to the adjoining two rooms. A groovy soul track warmed the concrete beneath a record player. 

The first adjacent room was a humid greenhouse, the lights bright and high up along the ceiling. Mayapples, wolfsbane, and yellow jasmine grew in rich clusters, mist clinging to their leaves. Their soil was carefully monitored and measured for pH and nutrients. Golden flower buds were on the cusp of opening, purple petals bloomed, and umbrella-like leaves rustled with the light breeze provided by the overhead fans. Soul music drifted to the final room. 

The processing room. 

Stiles bobbed his head to the beat, his gloved fingers cutting open mayapple stems. There was a very _specific_ satisfaction that came from the smooth glide of a blade against fleshy stalks. 

_Better than a cup of coffee,_ Stiles thought, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he exhaled when he lifted the knife from the mayapple. 

On his work desk, next to scales, inventory lists, and adjusted ratios for experimental formulas, was a business card for Stiles’s favorite diner. It was turned over with a number scrawled on the back with the message, _Call me sometime soon - Peter._

Stiles glanced at the card, a warm flush tickling his cheeks. _Give it time,_ he shivered and turned back to his work, _you can’t just immediately text some hot guy who chatted you up over milkshakes. Tomorrow,_ Stiles smiled, secretive and shy, _I’ll text him in tomorrow._

Stiles was twenty-four, and with his favorite record playing, sharp scalpel in hand, and a cool breeze on his back, he wondered if this was what Heaven felt like. 

He let the stems drain into a thin beaker and peeled off his gloves just as four heavy knocks landed on the front door to his main room. 

“Shit,” Stiles checked his phone but there were no new messages. He exited the processing room, lifted the needle off his record player, and quietly closed the door to his greenhouse just as the knocks picked up again. “I’m coming, just give me a second!” He stripped his t-shirt off with one hand, unhooking the tapestry from where he’d rolled it up above the door and let it fall to the floor. “Two seconds, I was sleeping!” 

Stiles tugged his sweats down so they hung low and crooked on his hips. He tugged the sheets down his bed, and finally stumbled toward his door. He shoved his fingers through his hair before he unlatched four different locks and one chain. 

Erica Reyes leaned against his doorway. Her eyes flickered down to his navel before they jerked up to his unkempt hair. 

“What’s up?” Stiles rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t see any missed calls or messages from Deuc.” 

“It’s a last minute request.” 

Stiles grimaced, already lamenting the potential lost hours of work. 

“Last minute requests are a twenty-thousand dollar bonus.” 

Erica’s lips pulled back into a thin grin that was so transparent Stiles wondered how she’d lasted so long in Deucalion’s Pack. It was plain as day to see the layers of disgust and hatred painted on her teeth, in every wrinkle along the corners of her eyes. 

“Money is of no importance to Alpha Deucalion.” 

Stiles winked. 

“Though not the only thing he doesn’t find important, I’m sure.” Erica recoiled. Stiles withdrew, speaking before she could do something incriminating, like _apologize._ “Give me fifteen minutes.” 

He closed the door firmly, twisting all the locks in place and reattaching the chain. 

During his childhood, money had been a slippery eel that could never be caught with human hands. His father had _hated_ money, but at the same time it was _necessary._ It wasn’t possible to live for free, and it _definitely_ wasn’t possible to live for free with a kid. 

He slid his legs into tight magenta pants and pulled on one of his long-sleeved black shirts with a high collar but an exposed back that let the cold night air brush against his bare skin. 

Money. It was a dirty word when he was a kid. Money came easily to people who weren’t human. 

Stiles pushed up his sleeves and strapped leather holsters on each arm, the ones he’d specially made for the syringes stored within them. He carefully pulled his sleeves over his arms. The last step were his gloves, black with magenta stitching. Pulling them on was like putting on armor. His heart rate slowed as he carefully opened a jar and used a brush to coat the back of his left glove in liquid. 

The question his dad never asked was: What could a human do to make as much money as a mage? 

Stiles had no problem asking that question. 

“All right,” Stiles opened his door with his coat half on, ignoring Erica’s flinch. He locked his door. “Let’s see what kind of drama Deucalion kicked up this time.” 

She led him down the hallway of the top floor, the overhead motion lights coming on with loud _clacks_. The Block was cheap, industrial, didn’t ask questions, and preferred the rent in cash. 

Erica took a deep breath of fresh Vegas air, Boyd smirking as he leaned against the sleek black Escalade. Boyd opened the back passenger door and Stiles climbed inside. 

“She lost rock-paper-scissors, huh?” 

Boyd allowed himself a small smile. Warmth bubbled in Stiles’s stomach at the sight even when Boyd smoothed his expression over into disinterested professionalism. 

“That she did.” 

He shut the door. Erica and Boyd played another round that she lost, scissors cutting her paper and placing her in the driver’s seat. 

They drove out of the sketchier neighborhood towards tourism, away from shadowed, dimly lit streets, to unending LED screens and lights. 

The drive to the Aria was always too short and the air was always too cold when Stiles stepped out of the car. Kali and Ennis were there to meet Stiles, wordlessly leading him to the elevators to the Penthouse Suites. Stiles stood carefully between them. 

With a cheery _ding,_ the doors opened. 

The rest of the Pack was in the suite, even Lydia. He made sure to hold her gaze. 

“Good evening,” Lydia smiled quickly, a flash of teeth that didn’t meet her eyes. “Glad you could make it.” 

_Yeah right,_ Stiles bit back. He bowed his head, relieved that the motion could serve as an excuse to avert his eyes. 

The suite was decorated with intentionally impersonal furniture, sleek, gold, and modern. It was also… cheap. The kind of luxury that didn’t age well and was more about being loud than being tasteful. 

It was one of the many reasons why it was Deucalion’s favorite. The Alpha of Alphas in question stood in the foyer, just outside of the living room. 

Deucalion grinned, syrupy and sharp. He reached forward, and Stiles quickly moved back even as Deucalion turned the motion into a grandiose _welcome to my home_ gesture. 

The muscles in Deucalion’s jaw tightened for a split second, but the moment of tension was quickly waved away with twinkling eyes and a charming English lilt. 

“I’m glad you were able to make it.” 

Stiles shrugged. 

“It’s your money.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “Who do you have for me?” 

“A wolf who’s been snooping around our territory.” Deucalion sneered. “I need to know why this waste of an Alpha is here.” 

Stiles nodded, finishing the last of the buttons. He shrugged off his jacket and Deucalion gently took it into his hands. 

“That’s fifty, plus the twenty for the last minute call. You get the first ten minutes free, every minute after that is an additional thousand.” 

Deucalion nodded the same way he did every time Stiles went over billing, with his eyes shamelessly dragging down Stiles’s legs and the long exposed stretch of his back. Deucalion wasn’t the only one looking. The moment Stiles took off his jacket, the Pack’s attention always zeroed in on his skin. 

“That’s fine,” Deucalion always talked a half-second slower when Stiles took off his jacket, tearing his eyes away to meet Stiles’s gaze. “The money’s inside, in the usual place.” Deucalion’s smile returned to the usual slimey gleam. “After you, Stiles.” 

Stiles usually knocked out the toughest Alphas in under ten minutes no problem, even the most tenacious wolves didn’t take longer than fifteen minutes. Stiles figured he’d be home within the half hour, back to listening to his records and prepping more batches. 

The living room had a few Pack members on the edges, always present for protection. Deucalion hovered behind Stiles, his breath hot on Stiles’s back, though Stiles couldn’t feel it. Icy dread settle in his stomach. 

“Meet Peter Hale,” Deucalion crowed like a ringleader. “The exile of the Hale Pack.” 

The rest of the Pack members laughed in loud barks. There was a woman with dark hair between two chortling Pack members, her arms crossed and her eyes on… 

_Call me sometime soon._

Stiles needed to take a breath because while his heartbeat always picked up before a questioning, he never _panicked._ He needed to remain calm even though Peter was looking at him with the same flirty smile. Even with his arms tied behind his back, he sat with elegant ease, like he was made of liquid mercury. 

“Good evening,” Peter purred with the same crooked smile he’d worn at the diner. 

Easy-going with just a hint of sleaze. Delight with a sprinkle of hunger. That kind of smile was tempting over a strawberry milkshake at four in the morning. Thrilling and a little frightening because of how much it made Stiles _want,_ imagining how that same smile would feel pressed against his neck, biting into his thigh, or wrapped around his cock. It had been so long since Stiles had even _considered_ flirting back. With the taste of ice cream on his tongue, it was easy to forget just how dangerous such a tryst would be. 

At the time Stiles hadn’t cared. He’d barely managed to keep his hand from sliding onto Peter’s.

 _Did Deucalion follow me? Did he see… did he see Peter come up to me? Is this some fucked up game? Is this a test?_

“What did you need?” Stiles asked instead, his eyes still on Peter. “Remind me.” 

“I want to know what this reject is doing in Vegas. He’s been sniffing around too long and too close to me for it to be just a happy accident.” 

A series of chuckles from the room punctuated Deucalion’s request. Stiles went to fetch the canvas bag on the couch, bending over to unzip it. The usual rolls of rubber-banded bills were accounted for. When Stiles turned back to Peter, the wolf’s eyes were dazed, his cheeks flushed. His pupils were already dilated and Stiles hadn’t begun his work. 

“I’d tell you if you asked nicely,” Peter swallowed with a loud click in the back of his throat as Stiles got closer to him, his face getting pinker and pinker with each step. “But I also want to see you in action.” 

Sitles paused, his hands hovering at his sides. Deucalion snickered behind him, whispering something to an unimpressed Lydia. Stiles ignored the prickling eyes on his back. 

“You do?” 

_I thought you were just a stranger,_ Stiles didn’t say. Peter’s smile softened and turned just a bit sad. The cold dread in Stiles’s stomach grew heavier until he thought he was going to be sick. 

“Of course,” Peter whispered like the words didn’t slice Stiles’s heart. “I’ve heard about Deucalion’s mage. They say that you’re as beautiful as you are terrifying.” 

The chuckling in the room stopped. Stiles’s heart thundered in his chest. He hadn’t been _this angry_ in so long it was dizzying. He was angry at Deucalion for being a clingy Alpha with no sense of boundaries. He was angry at Peter for being just like everyone else. He was angry at _himself_ for thinking that a handsome man just so happened to walk into Stiles’s favorite hole-in-wall. 

Stiles stepped between Peter’s parted legs, his leather gloves creaking as he placed his hands on Peter’s shoulders. _It’s time to leave Vegas,_ Stiles thought.

“Well then, Mr. Hale,” Stiles pulled his lips back, flashing a skeletal grin. “Let’s begin.”

::::

As far back as Stiles could remember, he always wanted to be a gangster. 

Beacon Hills Elementary consisted of five trailers lined up in an old lot. The ground was too dry to keep grass so the siding was always covered in dust. No matter what color Stiles’s sneakers were, they always ended up dirt-brown. Textbooks were old hand-me-downs from grandparents and great-grandparents, and the chapters didn’t always lineup.

Recess was spent in a playground on the edge of town, in the richer district. They shared it with a werewolf only school. The teachers said it was to “broaden their students horizons through exposure.” 

Each class stayed on opposite sides of the playground. Swings and slides belonged to the humans. The jungle gym and baseball field belonged to the wolves. The sandbox was a neutral zone that rarely had any use.

Stiles kicked his shoes in the sand, sending a spray of sand across Isaac Lahey’s shins. 

“Hey, dog-breath.” 

Isaac squinted up at Stiles. 

“Hi, meatsack.” 

On Stiles’s first day of kindergarten he’d been so strung out that the moment his buddy let go of his hand on the shared playground, Stiles had burst into tears. He’d been crying so hard he didn’t have time to see that his classmates, besides staring at him with embarrassment and empathy, had all moved to one side of the grounds. He’d kept stumbling until he was on the wrong side, and it was Isaac who’d grabbed his hand with a gentle, “hey, over here,” and sat them both down at the sandbox. 

Back then, in the deep desert with a dwindling population and a lowering literacy rate, all it took was a warm hand and sandy shoes to make a friend. 

Isaac scooted over on the edge of the sandbox and Stiles sat down next to him, their backs to the sand so they could watch their classmates play. 

“Today we learned all about long division and Magic Reclamation.” Isaac sniffed. “I hate long division.” 

“Aw, you’re already at Magic Reclamation? We don’t get to that until next year _at least.”_ Stiles rested his elbows on his scabbed up knees. “We only have three books that covered it, and one of them has bad burn marks.” Stiles leaned his shoulder against Isaac. “I don’t mind math. But you know what I learned today?”

Stiles didn’t have cable and half the channels were too snowy to sit down and watch. His father’s books were almanacs, nature guides, and manuals for cars. All the big stories that were Stiles’s favorites came from his monthly visit to the library, or his history lessons at school. To Stiles, history lessons were gospel. 

“You learned about Prohibition, right?” Isaac nodded. Stiles grinned. “Have you heard of Arnold Rothstein?” 

History was full of characters and the past was so _wild_ and full of promise. The _past_ was when humans had been the only dominant force on the planet. With how Stiles lived on a day-to-day, with how many creatures were out in the open and… _higher on the food chain,_ so to speak, history read less like facts and more like fairy tales. 

Isaac sat, wide-eyed, as Stiles described a Jewish gangster that operated in New York, a man who fixed a whole World Series. A gambler who moved millions of dollars but seemed to never have more than a few hundred in his pocket, a man who died too young, and raised some of the more prominent members of the modern mob. 

“He was so smart,” Stiles said as the teachers blew the whistles signaling the end of playtime. “He didn’t care who you were or where you were from. All you had to be was the best.” 

“Wow,” Isaac helped Stiles onto his feet, already so much stronger even though they were the same age. “He sounds really cool, Stiles.” Isaac put his hand on Stiles’s head, rubbing hard down on his skull. “I’ll see you tomorrow, weakling.” 

Isaac only ever called him names when the others were in hearing distance. Stiles swallowed. 

“See you later, mutt.” 

He grabbed his buddy’s hand and began the long walk back to Beacon Hills elementary, daydreaming about the era of gangsters. The time of _humans._ He stared out of the windows, fantasizing of a time when he could have worked his way up. Back in a time where the word _human_ didn’t mean weaker, slower, and inferior. 

Back in a time when kids were driven home from school in busses.

He kicked off his dusty shoes outside of his father’s trailer. He unlocked the door and made his way to the kitchen, pushing a stool across the floor so he could reach the cabinets. 

Stiles carefully measured out pasta into perfect serving sizes. Every time he used sauce or butter, it was with measuring spoons. Maintaining a budget was easy as long as Stiles and his father followed the math and ratios. If Stiles was still hungry after his dinner, which he usually ate alone, he’d drink water. 

_“Feel it filling your belly,”_ his mother used to say with a thin smile.

Whenever his dad heard Stiles’s stomach growl after a meal, he’d curl in on himself. 

By the time the tires of his dad’s truck crunched over their gravel driveway, Stiles had already cleaned the dishes and taken three glasses of water back to his room. 

::::

As years went on, Stiles grew taller and his class size lessened considerably. Families moved away, looking for work, and Beacon Hills Elementary became Beacon Hills High. His teacher, Mr. Chamberlin, who’d been Stiles’s teacher since he was four, had a pronounced hunch. 

“You know,” Mr. Chamberlin drawled at the end of another school day. Stiles liked to help clean up, because he could ask more questions. He always wanted _more._ “You remind me a lot of a student I had many years ago.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Stiles’s voice was getting deeper by the day. He was fourteen and a half when Mr. Chamberlin dug through his desk to pull out an old, framed photograph. A much younger Chamberlin stood behind a group of kids, and the boy in the center held a trophy. He had wild black hair and the biggest teeth Stiles had ever seen. He was grinning so hard it split is face in half. 

“Robert Finstock. He was the state Chemistry champion five years in a row.” 

Stiles grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the floor, sending the dirt out of the trailer door. 

“What’s that?” 

It was a simple question, but often even the simplest questions would make adults wilt, like Stiles had gutted them with just two words. _It’s not your fault,_ Stiles had to remind himself, choking down how shame closed its fist around his throat. Mr. Chamberlin shoved his shaking hands into his sweater pockets. 

“This is well before your time, but our school used to be bigger, if you can imagine. Back when the state had enough funding for public schools, enough to put them in a proper building.” Mr. Chamberlin smiled, though he didn’t look particularly happy. “There were statewide competitions for sports and education, and Robert had a _sharp_ mind for science, just like you.” 

Stiles finished sweeping and walked Mr. Chamberlin to his car, the sun slowly sinking towards the horizon. 

“He had a way with the elements. He loved plants in particular.” Mr. Chamberlin smiled again, though he looked one breath away from tears. “I wonder what ever happened to him.” A sharp whistle made them both look up. Isaac waved from the dirt road. Before Stiles could turn back to his teacher, Mr. Chamberlin squeezed his shoulder. “Go on, Stiles. Study hard, I’ll see you bright and early.” 

Stiles had been young enough to have a short emotional attention span. One moment he was aching with not _knowing_ the world as it had been, and the next he was shoving his fingers into Isaac’s hair and rubbing because of how it made the wolf squeal and grab Stiles. It was a little too rough to be affectionate like a human, but it was enough. 

“I’m gonna go bald because of you.” 

Isaac whined, though he betrayed his annoyance by pushing his head under Stiles’s fingers. 

Their shoes kicked along bits and gravel. The sun beat down on their shoulders and they found relief in the splattering shade that was provided by the overhanging trees. Stiles hated walking the three miles back to his house when he was alone, but with Isaac time flew by as they chatted about their classes, teachers, and everything between. 

“Ellie finally asked you out, huh?”

 

Stiles smirked as Isaac jumped, his cheeks flushed red. 

“How did you know?”

There were many things that Stiles could have said in that moment. _Werewolves are stupidly easy to read,_ was one of them. _Werewolf hierarchy isn’t as stable as you think it is_ was another. Years of watching wolves on the playground taught Stiles all the _not so subtle_ tells. Ellie always had a thing for Isaac but they were both too shy to do anything about it. 

Isaac had been walking taller that day, his smile was a loose, dopey slant. He kept touching his cheek, probably where she’d kissed him after school. 

Stiles could have said any of it as they turned onto his street. Thinking back, he wasn’t sure _why_ he didn’t just _say something truthful._

“Because I’m magic.” Stiles winked. “Late bloomer I guess.” 

Isaac laughed and if they had a few more seconds, Stiles would have laughed with him and the statement would have just been that: a joke. A throwaway line that was forgotten within minutes. Instead, his father’s car was in the driveway. It was a Tuesday and his father was _never_ home early during the week. The sight was enough to make the air freeze in Stiles’s throat. 

Isaac’s laughter softened and he followed Stiles’s wide gaze. From his father’s car, to the shining red Porsche parked next to it. 

“Stiles?” 

Looking back, Stiles was absurdly lucky he made that stupid joke right at that moment. He swallowed, his eyes meeting Isaac’s.

“You gotta go.” Stiles’s breaths were coming too short, his skin felt cold even though they were standing in the hot sun. “My dad shouldn’t be home. Something must have happened.” 

Isaac hesitated, his hand feather-light but _present_ on Stiles’s arm. 

“But… I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” 

“Y-Yeah,” Stiles nodded despite how the inside of his mouth was sticky and dry. “Tomorrow.” 

Isaac’s fingers slipped off his arm. He took off running back down the road, a thin trail of dust the only clue that he’d ever been there. 

Every step towards his house felt like an eternity. The air was cold and slimy, like algae-slick stones. 

That morning had been like any other. Stiles woke up before his dad, made himself breakfast, and walked to school. He’d had a class that was fun, where he’d learned about the remedies hidden in everyday plants. He’d walked home with Isaac, and… and it was all so normal, so common that he hadn’t taken the time to savor it. His hand closed their thin latched door, the wire on the screen warped and full of dust and dead bugs. 

His father sat in his chair in the kitchen like always. 

A tall man stood by Stiles’s chair. _Not like always._

He was dressed in nice, fitted clothes and took great care not to touch anything that wasn’t the back of Stiles’s chair. When Stiles slowly closed the door behind him, the man’s eyes flashed red. 

_What the hell is an Apha doing in our house,_ Stiles didn’t shriek at his father. He set his bag down at the base of their coat rack and moved slowly toward the kitchen, his socks soft against the linoleum. 

The Alpha stepped forward and firmly took Stiles’s chin between his thumb and index finger. Stiles didn’t move, didn’t _breathe,_ as the Alpha leaned in close.

“He has a refined bone structure.” His thumb rubbed over Stiles’s jaw. “Clear skin. Though his frame is delicate.” The Alpha finally took his eyes off of Stiles to stare at his dad. “You said that he’s smart?” 

“Yes,” his father nodded frantically. “Stiles has been the top of his class ever since preschool.” 

“Out of eight.” The Alpha’s eyes snapped back to Stiles. Stiles’s lips twitched as he continued. “We lost a few more this year, probably more next year _if_ the school gets enough funding to stay open.” Stiles shrugged. “Less impressive when you do the math.” 

The Alpha drew back, recoiling. Stiles felt a warm glow of victory, a quiet, _that’s right, back off_ singing in his mind before a slow smile spread across the Alpha’s lips. 

“Clever.” The Alpha’s touch withdrew, the points of contact leaving bruises in their wake. “The offer is acceptable, though I’d ask that he take placement tests to see which school would be best for him. Keep in touch.” 

The Alpha strode out of the door, the sound of an engine starting and then fading away his final farewell. Stiles turned to face his father, who slouched lower in his chair. 

“Dad—” His father had a bottle of whiskey and indignant _petty_ anger bubbled up in Stiles’s throat. One bottle of whiskey was the equivalent of six and a half pasta boxes. “Who was that?” 

The clock ticked loudly on the wall. Every tick was a bead of sweat on the back of Stiles’s neck, an uneasy flutter in his heart. Amber whiskey swirled in the glass as his father poured himself a generous helping. 

For years it was just the two of them. For years is it was his father driving four towns over for a mediocre job that he kept saying he was lucky to get, and for years it was Stiles taking care of himself and rationing out their food to fit into their budget. It _worked._

“Stiles,” his father’s voice cracked. It was a whip, sharp and _hot_ against Stiles’s skin. “Stiles, that Alpha can take care of you.” His father pressed the heels of his wrists against his eyes, shuddering. “I can’t afford it anymore.” 

Alphas accepting money to bite an outsider, a non-Pack member, was illegal. Stiles knew that like he knew the sky was blue. Of course, he also knew that it still happened. Usually, the person who would _pay_ for that kind of a thing, was the one who wanted to be bitten. 

 

Stiles was beginning to realize that there was not a lot of _usual_ in his life. 

Anxiety slithered between his ribs, streaked down his cheeks, and choked the air from his mouth. _Be mature,_ he thought between screaming gales of hysterics. _It’s time to grow up._ Stiles needed to be articulate. He needed to be _reasonable_ in his argument that his father’s line of thinking was wrong. 

Instead he cried harder than he ever had, even harder than when his mom died. 

_Please, please don’t send me away, please, I’ll do anything, please dad, **please—**_

The next thing he knew, he was in his father’s arms, being squeezed, his back to his father’s chest. _Breathe with me, Stiles,_ his father whispered, and Stiles obeyed. His breaths hiccuped into his lungs. His arms hung limp. 

“I can get money.” Stiles swallowed. “I can get us money, dad. Let me try, please.” 

Laying on his kitchen floor, his limbs prickling and his lips bitten raw, Stiles thought _what would Arnold Rothstein do?_

::::

Inspiration was a strange and chaotic ally. 

Stiles’s adult life and way of income had started with a joke. A throwaway punchline that, out of pure chance, was never resolved. It was a _start,_ and a start was all Stiles needed. 

Beacon Hills didn’t have a library but there was one in the neighboring township that, by bike, Stiles could get there in just under an hour. If Isaac was the one pedaling and Stiles was standing behind them, they could get an extra half hour in. 

“What are we doing here, Stiles?”

Isaac grew quieter in his teenage years. Even at fourteen and a half, he was going for the brooding, mysterious vibe. 

“Wizard stuff.”

Stiles took Isaac by the hand, leading him past fiction, public records, and even further until the musty smell took on an unpleasant twinge. Isaac tugged his hand free to cover his nose. 

“Stiles—” 

“I know, just hold your breath. I’ll be quick.” 

He heard Isaac take a big gulp of air as Stiles darted through the stacks, his fingers swiftly taking out books on botany, agriculture, and distilling. His hand hovered over a poisonous plants guide before he pulled it free from the shelf, jerking his head to the side for Isaac to follow him. 

Stiles felt like he was dancing, to one of the crooners on his mom’s old records. His limbs felt longer and his strides glided like swans on a lake. Isaac set down his homework and peppered Stiles with questions as Stiles flipped through the book of poisonous plants, filling his notebook with one hand and tracing his finger beneath text with another. 

He was happiest when he was nose-deep in a book, when he was tasting new information, new _hopes,_ and with every turn of the page was an ocean of information on soil quality, side effects, and cures. 

By the time he’d finished, his hand was cramped and he had a pounding headache, the same kind of headache Stiles got on the first day of school. 

He turned the last page, where the check-out history was beginning to fade. A name on the very bottom of the list caught his eye. 

_**R. Finstock Apr ‘97.**_

Stiles grabbed the next book on agriculture. _**R. Finstock. Apr ‘97.**_ Stiles swallowed. All five of the books he’d grabbed had last been checked out by Robert Finstock in the spring of 1997. 

“Isaac,” Stiles whispered, “new plan. We have to find every book that’s been looked at by this guy,” he pointed to Finstock’s name. “I’ll start on the far left side, you start on the right.” 

“Sti-iles,” Isaac whined. “You want to spend our summer in a _library?”_

Stiles licked his lips, his cheeks flushed and his breath shallow. 

“I do.” Stiles grinned, his teeth slick as his lips pulled back. “Do _you_ want to be a mage’s apprentice?” 

All the breath rushed out of Isaac’s lungs. 

“Me? An apprentice?” Isaac’s smile was hesitant and soft. “Really?” 

Stiles squeezed Isaac’s hands, warming the wolf’s oddly cold fingers. 

“Really really.” 

That summer was one of Stiles’s favorites, each morning he’d wake up before sunrise to make breakfast, meet Isaac down the road and hop on the back of his bicycle. They gathered all the books that Robert Finstock had read, which were twenty-eight in total, and laid them out at the work table. A lot of the pages were dog-eared. When he ran his fingers over the old pages, he felt indentations. 

He carefully laid paper over the pages and, with Isaac watching, ran the side of his pencil over the paper. Sure enough, raised text transferred onto the page. A messy scrawl of notes, a lot of swearing, and equations. Ratios. Measurements. Sketches of trellises and lab equipment. 

Isaac had whispered, _“How did you do that, Stiles?”_ Stiles showed him how to hold the pencil feather-light, how to gently run it over lined paper to capture the hidden words. _“Magic,”_ Stiles lied with reckless delight. 

They built a small greenhouse in the woods behind Stiles’s trailer. Stiles and Isaac rode their bikes to a plant nursery and Stiles picked out mayapples, yellow jasmine, and poppy flowers, and seeds of each. Stiles wondered if the thrumming, electric thrill that ran through his body was the same thrill that Arnold Rothstein had when he played poker for the first time. 

From what Stiles had gathered from Robert Finstock’s notes, he’d figured out a way to mix opium and wolfsbane into a liquid so that it would be potent to wolves. He’d mixed it into cocktails, charging more for the drink that guaranteed a euphoric experience. 

Stiles was prepared to experiment on the side while replicating Robert’s work, he’d set up the processing tools he needed, but right before school started, Isaac showed up on his back porch in right after dinner when his dad had gone to bed. Stiles nearly dropped a dish when he saw Isaac standing by the screen door, his eyes wide and his skin pale. 

Stiles put the plate down and opened the door, a thousand words on his tongue that immediately vanished when Isaac surged forward and hugged him. 

“Isaac?” Stiles felt Isaac trembling in his arms. When he gently pressed his hands under Isaac’s shirt, his skin was ice cold. “Isaac, what happened?” 

His friend’s shoulders jumped in uneven bursts, his breath quiet and hot against Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Are you really m-m-magic?” He whispered, sharp and swift in the dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moon outside. Isaac squeezed him, his body so _cold_ even though it was the end of summer. “I need… I need help, and I don’t know what to do.” 

Stiles pulled back, his heart hammering in his chest as he closed the door and eased Isaac inside.

“Tell me what happened.” 

Isaac told Stiles everything in the dead of night. His breaths slowly evened out the longer Stiles held his hands. The more Isaac spoke, the quicker Stiles realized that he couldn’t just _copy_ Robert Finstock. Selling good feelings wasn’t what Stiles was meant to do. He thought of the other plants he bought, on a whim, not because of Robert’s notes but because of the notes that _Stiles took himself_. 

When Isaac could breathe without shuddering, Stiles dragged his favorite blanket off the couch and wrapped it around Isaac’s shoulders. 

They sat in the dark and breathed together. 

:::: 

_Keep your head up. Make eye contact. When you speak, speak clearly, no wavering, and with confidence. If you’re not confident, act that way until you are._

His dad had told him that on his first day of school. It was supposed to be comforting, but Stiles cried with the rest of the kids who were dealing with being away from home for the first time. 

It was funny how years later, his father’s advice would have more use. 

Alpha Chester Mostel was shorter than Stiles had imagined, he had a soft stomach and a groomed beard with thick glasses that were purely for vanity. He was warm when he shook Stiles’s hand, his eyes twinkling even when his lips pulled into a grimace. 

“Mr. Stilinski,” Stiles held his chin up higher at the title. Alpha Mostel held his arm out, a welcoming motion. “Isaac speaks highly of you and your prowess in magical knowledge.” 

Stiles bowed his head in silent acknowledgement. 

The plan took several steps and required equipment. Isaac had to build Stiles’s reputation with his Alpha. He had to speak honestly but also vaguely about the work Stiles had done. The next step was Stiles interviewing for a volunteer program at a human hospital four towns over, wearing his best clothes and coloring his cheeks so he looked affluent and well-fed. 

All he needed was to get into the door, to slip away just long enough to get as many unused syringes into his pockets and bag without being noticed. 

“He said that you summoned words on a page, words that he couldn’t see in a handwriting he didn’t recognize.” Alpha Mostel smiled, a fleeting but warm expression. When he didn’t hear a waver in Stiles’s heartbeat, his eyes wrinkled at the sides. “Astonishing. I’m sure your father must be proud.” 

The Mostel Pack had brought in the Laheys before the territory laws had been defined with more restrictions. Humans had been eager to pay into a different species. There was a boom in the werewolf populations and Packs had doubled in size overnight. Isaac’s father and mother had gotten in the Mostel Pack at the last minute. 

From what Stiles had learned about werewolves was that the direct family members could feel a bond with their Pack. It was expected that any of those bitten to join, would also feel that same hum of familial connection. 

_But I don’t feel it,_ Isaac had whispered in the middle of the night, tears still drying on his cheeks, _and I don’t think my dad feels it either. And that means that the Alpha can’t feel us… can’t feel me when it happens._

“He is.” Stiles turned to look at the main house, at the nice paved driveway, trimmed bushes, and colorful flowers. The rest of the Mostel Pack were on the porch. Isaac stood to the side, his shoulders curled inward as he gripped the railing tight. “We can discuss the monetary value you put on peace of mind and the well-being of your Pack members after I’m finished.” 

Mages never worked for free, and mages had no reason to flinch from a flash of red eyes or an Alpha growling. Stiles didn’t cower when Alpha Mostel’s fangs dropped. 

“This is a favor for Isaac. The allegation that his own father is… _abusing_ him is…” 

He trailed off, his hands clenching and unclenching. Sweat gathered at the Alpha’s temples. Stiles kept his shoulders slack and his breathing even. 

“My magic is highly specialized for the mind, Alpha Mostel. I’ll be getting the truth from Mr. Lahey as quickly and efficiently as possible.” 

Alpha Mostel bowed his head. 

“Good. The sooner this is over with, the better.” 

The porch steps squeaked under Chester’s weight. Stiles held the door open and glanced behind him. The rest of the Pack followed them inside, quiet apart from shallow, stressed breathing. Stiles had time to catch a quick look at homey decor before he went into the basement. 

Under a single light bulb, tied to a chair, was Isaac Lahey’s father. 

He was conscious and irate. He had a damp rag in his mouth, his chin slick with drool. His eyes widened when Stiles stepped out from behind Alpha Mostel, his anger rippling into confusion. Alpha Mostel removed the gag and stepped to the side, silent. 

_Are you sure you’ll be able to get him to… admit it? In front of the Alpha?_ Isaac had been so cold, so fragile. There were no absolutes in life, not without a few trial runs. Stiles brought Isaac’s fingers to his mouth, blowing warm air over his skin. 

_We won’t know unless we try._

“Mr. Lahey, I ask that you be honest with me.” Cold tendrils of _possibility_ dragged down Stiles’s spine, the syringes strapped to his hip and his shirt sleeves loose. “The mind has the inherent urge to be truthful. I’m going to use magic to open your mind to mine.” 

The Mostel Pack stared at Stiles’s back. He stood balanced on a knifepoint. 

He didn’t want to be handed off to some Alpha he’d never heard of. He knew, pragmatically, that his father was accurate. Stiles wouldn’t go to bed hungry. He could go to a proper school with busses, textbooks without burn marks and water damage. If Stiles were a werewolf, he would be faster, stronger, and he would have better chances at success in life. 

_Fuck that,_ Stiles ground his teeth, his heart thundering in his chest. _I was born a human, and I will die as one._

“The more you lie,” Stiles yanked Mr. Lahey’s hair and pulled his head to the side. His eyes widened and his fangs dropped with a loud snarl. Stiles grabbed a syringe and quickly injected the first dose into the wolf’s neck. The trick in any illusion was a distraction, a way to draw the eye _away_ from what was important. Stiles moved his right arm quickly and let the roaring werewolf under him attract stares. “The worse your mind will hurt and _fight_ for the truth.” 

Mr. Lahey’s mouth went slack, his eyes wide and his pupils bleeding into pure black as Stiles deftly slipped the syringe up his sleeve. The muscles around his jaw and eyes jumped wildly. Stiles held Mr. Laheys’ increasingly terrified gaze. 

“Keep your eyes on me, Mr. Lahey.” Stiles got another dose ready, his left hand anchored on the wolf’s trembling shoulder. “Do you hurt your son?” 

Lips pulled back, his chin moving to the side as he attempted to look away. Stiles quickly grabbed his chin and kept him still, getting closer to Mr. Lahey, stepping between his legs. 

“No. _No.”_

“No?” Stiles brought his left hand up, his thumb resting at the corner of Mr. Lahey’s eye, pressing down hard. The wolf whimpered, the sound broken and thick in his throat as Stiles snuck in a second injection. Sweat bubbled up immediately, Mr. Lahey’s skin glistening. “Mr. Lahey, you can feel it, can’t you? How much it hurts?” 

Stiles’s mouth was bone dry as he took deep breaths, letting the mandrake mixture do its job. 

Mr. Lahey breathed faster and faster, his dilated eyes big as saucers as his heartbeat slowed, sluggish despite his panic. Stiles stepped back, his hands slipping off Mr. Lahey, resting them on his hips. 

“I’ve seen others fight like you. Their lies would make them sweat, just like you. It would slow their heart, just like you.” With the Mostel Pack at his back, in a basement with his life in the balance, Stiles held Isaac’s father’s gaze, digging deep into that vile, slick black void that had opened up inside of him the moment his father let an Alpha grab his face for assessment. “I’ve seen lies contort the spine. I’ve seen lies send wolves into violent convulsions. Breaking their own neck and spine.” Stiles shrugged. “You can heal. But will you heal correctly?” 

Stiles pushed all his chips across the table.

“Are you _sure_ you know every nerve placement? Do you know your body well enough to fix the damage?” 

Pathetic hiccups dribbled out of Mr. Lahey’s lips. The Pack rustled behind him, nervous. _Keep your posture straight, your voice even, and your eye contact steady._

“The truth will set you free, Mr. Lahey. I promise.” 

He had a double dose of opium ready. A wet tongue lolled out of a slack mouth. Hot breaths made the room humid. Mr. Lahey never looked away from Stiles. 

“Do you abuse your son, Mr. Lahey?” 

Stiles didn’t tremble, didn’t think about how he’d need another mandrake dose soon if he _didn’t confess,_ and how he could be torn to pieces in the basement by a bunch of wolves. He _couldn’t_ think about the consequences, only the possibilities of whether or not his crazy gamble _worked,_ if he could actually _pull this off—_

“Please!” Mr. Lahey nodded. “Yes. _Yes.”_

Chester Mostel stiffened by Stiles’s side. Stiles didn’t move. 

“Tell me, Mr. Lahey.” 

And he did. He told Stiles everything, babbling faster when Stiles took a step closer. He admitted to everything, to repeated punches to the stomach after a meal, to locking him in a freezer, to sleep deprivation. He admitted to the impotent hatred, to the verbal and physical torture.

Stiles cupped Mr. Lahey’s cheek. He was tempted, _very tempted_ to finish him off with another mandrake shot, to let him sweat out delirium and convulsions for as long as it took the poison to work out of his system. 

With a sigh, Stiles covered Mr. Lahey’s eyes with his palm and administered the opium dose. Mr. Lahey sobbed as bliss washed over his body. 

Ten minutes later, Stiles stood back out in the night air with Alpha Mostel. He leaned against the corner of the porch, his hands stuffed in his pockets to hide how they shook. Alpha Mostel sighed. 

“Thank you,” his hand was firm on Stiles’s shoulder and he pulled him into a hug. _“Thank you.”_

Stiles arrived home at two in the morning, his father awake and worried. Stiles tossed the thick envelope that Chester Mostel had given him. 

Peace of mind did have a price. 

His father shakily thumbed through three-thousand dollars in cash as Stiles peeled off his hoodie. His father called after him in a hoarse voice, but Stiles didn’t hear him. He dropped his shirt on the floor, carefully put his syringes in his desk drawer, and collapsed onto bed. 

::::

Word traveled fast no matter the species. 

By his fifteenth birthday, he no longer went to bed hungry and his father had three bottles of bourbon instead of just one. 

On his seventh job, when the Alpha had leaned forward and sniffed Stiles, remarking him on smelling like his last call, he integrated the no touching rule and wore gloves. It wasn’t a difficult adjustment. 

His father stopped hugging him goodnight after the first twenty thousand dollars. 

When he was sixteen he had enough money to buy a clunky Jeep. It rattled and wheezed, but it could get Stiles to his destination. He learned to drive it with Isaac beside him, both of them holding their breaths and learning the pedals, their adrenalin and shining eyes eventually clearing into confidence. His greenhouse expanded. He adjusted his formulas and smoothed his processing times. 

It felt _good_ in a way that Stiles had never experienced. 

Writing down new findings, new reactions, and storing his recordings of his first trial runs with batches made Stiles feel feather-light, like a leaf on the wind. 

He floated, even when he came home to his father slumped over a half-empty glass. He spun, even when he wondered how much money would be _enough_ to get his father to look at him. He twinkled, even when he had to help his father into bed, booze staining his breath and cheeks. 

_How much does peace of mind cost,_ Stiles asked Alpha after Alpha after Alpha. 

The numbers varied. 

Stiles still hadn’t found a suitable sum. 

::::

As his reputation grew and his prices increased, he traveled further, up and down California. 

Stiles was seventeen when he pushed the door open to Old Moe’s. He was a few miles from the highway, and Stiles needed something in his stomach before the long drive back to Beacon Hills. A small bell rung above the door and the bartender glanced up, his frown deeply etched into his face. 

It was the kind of place that Stiles had seen countless times on his work trips. Nondescript, the smell of grease and smoke heavily painted into the wood. It promised decent food with no fuss. Stiles sat at the bar, slinging his backpack between his legs, catching it with his ankles before it could hit the sticky floor. 

The bartender slapped his hand towel over his shoulder. He tossed a menu over to Stiles. 

“We’re outta potato salad and the soda machine is broken.” The bartender narrowed his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” 

Stiles’s school had been dismantled months ago. State funding had been redistributed to areas more important than the few children that remained in Beacon Hills. 

“Looking at colleges. They gave me the time off.” 

Stiles offered up a half-smile, which was begrudgingly returned. 

“Good for you.”

Stiles usually thumbed through the cheesy noir thrillers he found at garage sales for twenty-five cents. He usually rested his elbows on worn wood and let his shoulders hunch forward while he waited for food. 

That afternoon, Stiles planned to read, he planned to stay for no more than twenty minutes.

A picture hung on the wall behind the bar. It was of the bartender with less grey in his hair. His lips were curled upwards, and his arm was thrown around a man with wild black hair and a wide, luminous grin. 

A grin that struck something deep inside of Stiles’s chest. 

He’d _seen_ that smile before. 

“Excuse me,” he held his hand out when his usual burger and fries was set in front of him. “Is that,” Stiles swallowed, his skin tight as he pointed to the picture behind the bar. “Is that Robert Finstock?”

The bartender flinched, his eyes darting to the picture. He huffed, his shoulders lowering inch by inch. 

“Yee-up.” He shook his head with a wistful smile. “Best employee I ever had.” The bartender shifted his weight and then rested his elbows on the bar. “How did you know him?” 

“He, uh,” Stiles’s voice cracked, “he went to my school. My teacher talked about him.” Stiles met the bartender’s eyes as he felt a warm heat crawl up his neck. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. What is he like, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

The bartender, the Moe of Old Moe’s, poured himself a glass of whiskey. 

“Bobby was the most incredible mage I’d ever seen.” Moe’s eyes misted over, and when he breathed his wrinkles lessened and his age dissolved away. “He cast spells on the cocktails he made. Even Packs who hated each other, who’d fight in my bar every night and ruin all our furniture… suddenly they were all friends. One drink from Bobby and you’d be smiling all night. I tried the first batch and,” Moe’s eyes fluttered shut, “it was like sunlight, but inside of me. All the tiny aches and pains melted away. Colors were beautiful, shimmering and… life really felt _magical.”_ He drew in a long breath. When he opened his eyes, his age returned with harsh finality. “In all my years, I haven’t met a mage who came close to Bobby.” 

“What happened to him?” 

Stiles feared the answer, but needed to know. His food grew cold. Moe shrugged. 

“He just up and left. He worked a bartending job for a wedding. That was the last time I saw him, the day before he went on that job.” 

Stiles leaned forward. 

“Do you remember the name of the people who hired him?” 

Moe snorted, a long, drawn out hiss. 

“Yeah. The Hoyer Pack.” 

Stiles had a four hour drive home. He had planned to stop for gas and groceries. Depending on what time he got home, he could check on his plants and refill his syringes. If he got home at the right time, he might be able to catch is father before he drank himself to sleep. Stiles leaned forward, abandoning his plans in an instant. 

“Moe, do you have a phone book?”


	2. The One-Armed Desert Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I help you?” The kid, whose pale skin _screamed_ non-Nevada native, stared at him with big brown eyes for a few seconds. His gaze flickered down to Finstock’s right shoulder, to where his shitty Hawaiian shirt couldn’t hide the fact that his right arm ended above where his elbow would have started. Finstock watched the kid swallow, his throat bobbing audibly even from a distance. He grimaced as he took his feet out of the pool, standing tall in the sand. “I’ll give you fifteen seconds to keep staring. After that, you’re gonna get the fuck off my lawn.”

Finstock repeatedly thanked God for three things: Strong coffee, good music, and the industrial air conditioning at Walmart. 

He stepped through the automatic glass doors and kissed the tip of his fingers, waving them upwards as a loud _rush_ of cooled air rushed down his Hawaiian shirt, ratty-tank top, all the way down to his jorts and flip-flops. _Thank you, Oh Mighty Lord,_ Finstock thought with lazy flourish as he tugged a cart free with his left hand. 

In the Nevada outskirts, where all across the horizon was dust and sun, the little comforts were gospel. The wheels of his cart squealed as he meandered down aisle after aisle. He loaded up his cart with bags of ice, canned fruit and beans, rice, disposable razors, bags of ice, vodka, mint leaves, and whatever soap was on sale.

He meandered for another half-hour before the shitty pop songs grew too irritating. 

“Will that be cash or—”

“Cash.” Finstock fumbled with his money clip. “Just give me a second.” 

He watched the teenager’s gaze liven up when he realized Finstock rested his hip against the podium, his left hand nimble but still slow when he handed over the bills. 

What was left of Finstock’s right arm barely touched the card reader. 

“Uh,” the kid was new, their throat bobbing as he handed Finstock his change. “Do you need help out to the car, sir?” 

Finstock flipped his aviators back down to cover his eyes. 

“That would be just dandy.”

He lobbed the bags of ice into the cart and the kid followed him out to his pick-up truck. The kid loaded everything into the backseat as Finstock folded a five-dollar bill into a swan. The kid blinked at the money before glancing back up at Finstock. There was always a pause, a tightness around the eyes and mouth that was a sickening mixture of pity and admiration. Finstock cleared his throat. 

“Thanks.” 

He left the cashier standing there, paper swan in his hand while Finstock sped away. 

Finstock didn’t have much of a routine, definitely not as much as he used to, but he had a small semblance of errands whenever he did leave his dusty trailer. The first stop was Walmart, the second, Irene’s gas station just four miles from his home. Unlike Walmart, Irene was a living relic of the past, a totally different world where the signs were painted fresh and Coca-Colas tasted sharp and sweet. 

“Hey, Irene.” Irene had one good eye left and wispy white hair. She sat behind the counter. He slid over some bills. “Any mail for me?” 

She shook her head. Finstock tipped an invisible hat and went on his way, not noticing the young man who ducked behind a display of sunflower seeds. 

The desert wasn’t bad. 

_It could always be worse,_ he thought with less and less conviction every time he made the trek back to his trailer. He kept the windows rolled down even though he’d never be able to rest his left elbow on the sill. The wind on his face made what remained of his right arm ache, fingers that no longer existed reaching for the wheel. He rolled out his shoulder, a cloud of dust surrounding his car when he finally slowed to a stop in front of his Airstream. 

Its silver gleam had faded over the years. When he first got it, he could see his reflection in every inch of it. Now, he was just a blurry shadow. 

He whistled as he unloaded his truck one bag at a time. The ice he threw in his cooler at once. Next came mixing a Mojito, setting up his beach umbrella, filling the kiddie pool, two-thirds water, one-third ice. Inside, he went through is CD collection with a discerning eye before settling on Dolly Parton. He dragged out his lawn chair made of pink plastic and pushed it up as close as it could get to the pool. With a Mojito in hand, Dolly at his back, his feet in icy water, and an endless desert sky in front of him… Finstock sipped, sat, and stared. 

He sipped, sat, and stared most days.

He was forty-two years old and halfway through his second Mojito. That was when Stiles Stilinski rolled into his life.

It started as a small blue dot on the horizon, which slowly grew as the seconds passed. Finstock sat up in his chair as he could finally make out a Jeep. There was no one around for miles, Finstock had bought the cheap land _specifically_ because no one wanted to live in the desert pits. No one ever mistakenly turned down his road. 

He grabbed a cheap, second umbrella that he kept by for whenever the wind blew sand. He held it out in front of him as the Jeep wheezed to a halt, kicking up dirt that bounced off the umbrella and dropped into his kiddie pool. Finstock lifted his umbrella as the Jeep’s door opened with a long, drawn out squeak. 

A kid stepped out of the car. 

He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old. Finstock’s left hand curled into a tense fist on his knee as a lot of details hit him at once. The California license plate, how the kid had a few red patches of sunburn on his arm and nose, and how _packed to the ceiling_ his car was. He was skinny, his baggy shirt did nothing to hide his prominent collar bones. 

Finstock leaned forward in his lawn chair, the plastic squeaking with his movement. 

“Can I help you?” The kid, whose pale skin _screamed_ non-Nevada native, stared at him with big brown eyes for a few seconds. His gaze flickered down to Finstock’s right shoulder, to where his shitty Hawaiian shirt couldn’t hide the fact that his right arm ended above where his elbow would have started. Finstock watched the kid swallow, his throat bobbing audibly even from a distance. He grimaced as he took his feet out of the pool, standing tall in the sand. “I’ll give you fifteen seconds to keep staring. After that, you’re gonna get the fuck off my lawn.” 

The kid snorted. 

“Don’t you need grass to have a lawn?” Finstock leveled him with an unimpressed glare that made the kid shiver, the smile falling from his face. He fumbled with his phone and cleared his throat. “Sorry. Um. Are you Mr. Robert Finstock?” 

Despite the heat on his back and the hot sand under his toes, Finstock felt as though he was bathed in ice. He crossed his arms. 

“What the fuck is it to you?”

The kid held up his hands, palms out and placating. 

“I’m Stiles Stilinski. I’m from Beacon Hills too. Mr. Chamberlin was your teacher, right?” The kid risked a hopeful smile. “I found your notes in the library, from the books you’d referenced.” 

Finstock’s heart fluttered, the first of a series of heart attacks he’d have that day.

::::

Finstock did it for money. 

He was twenty-four and had a dead-end job at _Old Moe’s._ He didn’t mind Moe. He was a rough-looking wolf who was secretly a big softie, soft enough to be fine hiring a human who had terrible reflexes and strength, at least… in comparison to other candidates. Moe said Finstock had charisma that Moe lacked himself. 

Even if he was hired out of blatant pity, Finstock took the money.

After his third week of working Finstock was on the floor, his back against the wall as his knees kept kicking him back, trying futilely to press further even though there was nowhere to go. Packs kept _fighting,_ all snarling teeth and fiery saliva as they broke the chairs and tables like they were made out of _toothpicks._

Moe had pushed him back with a gruff, “You stay behind me and don’t come out until I say.” 

Finstock’s heart hammered in his ribs and he felt like a rabbit, trapped in a hole as sharp fangs and feverish breath grew closer. 

_This wasn’t what my life was supposed to be like,_ Finstock thought with bitter clarity. 

Huddled behind a gruff werewolf, his hands still aching from all the lime juice that made his skin crack, he squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that the wolves who were lucid enough would know not to touch the owner. 

When humans got into bar brawls it usually ended quickly, someone overpowering the other or the bartender threatening to call the police. Humans had limited strength, and often were quick to wither at the threat of legal action. 

Werewolves had endless energy, endless strength, and all the same petty, _stupid_ hang-ups that humans did. When werewolves brawled, it was terrifying. 

Finstock struggled not to piss himself, another spray of blood soaking through his shoes. He covered his eyes and just tried to breathe through the roars, snarls, that had the gentle percussion of Moe’s sighs as their metronome. 

_Everyone just needs to chill out,_ Finstock thought hysterically. _They need something stronger than shitty booze._

That was how it started. 

Finstock had to drive two hours each way to work, but he still found time to break out his old chemistry books from school, a pen bobbing in his mouth as he drank another cup of coffee. He remembered how _good_ it felt, to retrace the old, dusty neuron pathways in his brain. Magic Reclamation had already been ten years in when Finstock was in high school, and his parents and teachers kept clinging onto the hope that everything would just go “back to normal.” 

Finstock had been a part of that hopeful mindset. College. Scholarships. A doctorate in chemistry. Those were all things that Finstock had still thought were going to be around by the time he graduated. 

He bought poppy plants. He went to the library and paged through books, taking feverish notes, from plant taxonomy, biology, and intricate drawings of plant anatomy. 

Hours of work, burning down samples of booze from work to figure out the wolfsbane ratio, and experimenting with opium dosages on himself, all leading up to the night where Finstock’s palms were sweating as him and Moe cleaned up another bloody night of dumb fighting. 

“What’s eatin’ at you?” Moe wrung out the mob, dirty, bloody water staining the bucket. “You’ve been squirming all night.” 

Bobby cleared his throat, swallowing guilt so he could smile. 

“Could you do me a favor, Moe? I’ve been working on something.” He watched Moe’s mouth slacken, the lines in his face softening at Finstock asking for help. He was a traditional wolf, the kind that _enjoyed_ people depending on him. With the right body language, he was putty in Finstock’s hands. “I’ve been experimenting with magic. I think I’m onto something.” 

“You’re magic?” Finstock nodded, hoping that a physical motion wouldn’t give him away. “I didn’t know that.” 

Finstock shrugged and took out a cocktail glass and poured his solution in, estimating the measurements and Moe’s approximate weight before he held it out to him. 

“I never really… explored it before but I thought if I could mix it into the drinks, it could calm our patrons down a little. Make them feel,” Finstock thought back to the experiments he did on himself, blissed out in his shitty apartment as he struggled to take notes while his pleasure centers were firing on all fronts, “light. Happy.” 

Moe took the delicate glass in his rough fingers, eyeing the clear liquid. 

“If it’s as good as you say it is, then we’re going to make a lot of money.” 

When Finstock had been in school he learned how science progressed under strict supervision, modifying, note-taking, with teams of people working to study the unknown. As he grew up, he found himself alone, with a pen, a bar napkin, and his boss drinking a drugged cocktail. 

He watched Moe’s pupils dilate, blowing wide as his lips turned into an undiluted, delighted smile. 

“Oh.” Moe’s eyelashes fluttered as he touched his own face, his fingers trailing down his cheek to his neck. “ _Oh_. This is…” Moe giggled, light and airy like he was a little kid. “This is _wonderful_.” 

Finstock wondered if Einstein had felt the same kind of thrill, a growing shudder in the base of his stomach that would bloom into bursts of warmth along his skin as he watched his boss chase the opium-induced sensations across his skin. _Or,_ Finstock remembered thinking with a sliver of worry in his heart, _was this what the audience felt like as they watched Le Sacré du Printemps?_

As Moe predicted, the cocktail was a hit. Twenty-five dollars would buy the guaranteed magical sensation of ecstasy. Packs that hated each other were suddenly draped over the other, giggling, laughing, touching. Eager to hug, kiss, and buy more once the colors started fading. 

::::

Just seven months into Finstock’s new identity as a cocktail mage, he had over six hundred thousand dollars in savings. He could buy new clothes, the brighter the better, and tips were always overflowing. Finstock had a bin of rubber bands that he’d use to tightly wrap up the bills at the end of the night. 

Moe had replaced the bulbs in the bar to be softer, and the back of the bar was lit with a neon pink and purple lights. _It feels like I’m dreaming,_ wolves would say night after night. Moe was able to buy better furniture, couches covered in lush velvet and dark, stained tables. Finstock had a greenhouse in his apartment and a constant ten gallons of his wolfsbane opium mixture on reserve in case of emergencies. 

It was a great series of months. Moe had even started talking about opening another bar. Finstock was co-manager with a group of bartenders who were eager to learn. 

Finstock’s ears were still ringing and he passed out the tips to his team before he sectioned off his own earnings. He’d sweat through his third neon blue shirt that night and he stripped it off, wincing at how his white undershirt stuck to his stomach and back. 

“What a night,” Moe thumbed through bills, licking his thumb to keep them from sticking together. “Just when I think there’s gonna be a dip, we just keep going.” 

Finstock clapped his hands together, rubbing them to spread the warmth back into his palms. He turned, his undershirt a bit untucked from his pants, his hair wild, to see… an older Alpha in a cable-knit sweater. 

“Sorry, we’ve closed for the night.” Finstock sauntered up to the door, a good foot taller than the wolf. “We open at four-thirty tomorrow. If I see you there, first drink’s on me.” 

“Ah, um,” the older man’s cheeks colored as he wiped his hands off on his sweater. “That’s unnecessary but thank you. I’ve already seen, well, _tasted_ your work.” The wolf smiled, charmingly sheepish. “I’d like to hire you for my daughter’s wedding.” He held out his hand. “Bill Hoyer.” 

“Bobby Finstock,” Finstock grinned, “pleasure to meet you.” 

Her daughter’s wedding was in five months. He wanted it to be an unforgettable experience, and Finstock specialized in unforgettable experiences. Since Alpha Hoyer had made his request plenty of time in advance, Finstock was able to schedule off work and start repairing extra batches for the big day. 

He splurged for the wedding and bought a bright powder-blue suit jacket and slacks. The jacket was lined with bright gold satin and the slacks were stitched with gold thread.

Walking into the Hoyer wedding was like entering a dream. 

Glittering glass panels lined the atrium, letting in the setting sunbeams as Finstock and the other staff hired for the reception set up. There was a dining hall off to the side where the walls were lined with food of every stretch of the imagination. That room was filled with lounge chairs and small tables where wolves could fill their stomachs. The casual bar, with the normal wolfsbane-laced alcohol, was in that dining room. 

The dance hall was the ballroom with the atrium ceiling. Large tables lined the room, the dance floor was black cracked tile that was streaked with gold. The bar that Finstock worked was crushed silver and he made sure to bring his own pink lights for fun backlighting. He wheeled in forty gallons of his wolfsbane-laced opium mixture. 

He had his suit jacket on the table behind him and his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up past his elbows by the time the guests arrived. He could hear them, in the sectioned off dining hall that had a false wall of velvet curtains separating it from the dance hall. As the roar of conversation bled into the dance hall, growing louder and louder as more wolves arrived, Finstock poured drinks to be ready for the onslaught. 

There were one-hundred and twenty eight ounces in a gallon. Five ounces was the perfect amount per dose of Finstock’s mixture. 

Bill Hoyer agreed to pay thirty thousand dollars for the forty gallons, with an additional fifteen thousand for Finstock’s “unique but undeniable charm,” Bill’s words, not Finstock’s. 

After an hour of dining, chimes were rung, and the curtains were drawn back. 

_Good God, they look like they fell out of a Georges Seurat painting._

Flowing, flowery dresses and summery suits glided into the room. Everyone was perfectly groomed and refined, teeth shining in the moonlight as the band swung into action. Finstock thought that after this magical night, he could start doing more weddings. 

He poured drink after drink, did card tricks that Moe taught him, and watched as more and more pupils blew wide. The bride’s gasp was electric as her cheeks flushed, her body draping over her husband as he spun her away to the dance floor. 

Finstock remembered thinking how werewolves were lucky that they could experience such powerful, chemical altering drugs with no consequences. _True hedonism,_ Finstock thought with a bittersweet smile, _and they don’t even know it._

That’s how _fucking idiotic_ he’d been.

What weighed him down decades later was just how _little_ he remembered of the actual young man. There had been a sea of faces, and a few younger ones that Finstock politely, but firmly, refused to serve. He charmed the adults, he poured the drinks, and he thought, like an _idiot,_ that everything would be all right. 

One of the young men that Finstock had refused to serve was the bride’s little brother. He was fourteen, all lanky limbs and, apparently, the desire to be just as cool as the adults. Finstock served, and when the kid couldn’t get cocktails from Finstock, he just went to the other tables with unfinished glasses. Unfinished splashes of opium. 

As the young man drank much _more_ than five ounces, Finstock had women laughing, men charmed, and the music kept playing. The band had a strong brass section and a bubbly singer who wasn’t scared to pull people onto the dance floor, her voice never wobbling for a moment. As more people left for the dance floor, as people kept spinning, giggling, bouncing, Finstock had some free time to do card tricks for the little kids who were eager to laugh at him and his funny faces. 

_This wedding is the first of many, many wonderful weddings,_ Finstock thought as he flipped a quarter over the fingers of his right hand, a little girl squealing with delight when he flipped it into the air. She caught it, her reflexes faster. 

He didn’t notice the screams at first. 

It wasn’t until the children turned, their eyes wide and their faces pallid, that Finstock thought he heard something. He looked to the dance floor, and that’s when he saw it. 

The bride, twisting on the floor in her husband’s arms. Blood ran down her dress, her neck bright and slick with bite wounds. He heard her screaming, not for help, but a name. Her wounds were sluggish to heal because she’d been drinking wolfsbane-laced drinks all night. Her husband had his tux ripped open, slashes across his stomach oozing blood as he pressed his hands to his wife’s wounds. 

Finstock saw the small, lean figure in the center of the dance floor, the overhead colored lights sweeping over the rapidly panicking mass. 

“Come on,” Finstock had to tear his eyes away from the ever-shifting body of the young man, he had to look away because the children were shaking. “Come on, _hurry.”_

He herded them towards the back door that led to the gardens, slow at first, but then faster once the young man roared. Finstock chanced a look behind him. 

The young wolf, some _kid_ , was wailing, his arms growing only to immediately shrink back to regular size, his back arching, his clothes ripping as his features elongated with shrieking violence. He would move in sluggish steps that bled into blurred bursts of speed. His shirt was ripped open and drool spilled down his chest as he howled. 

Finstock’s hands shook as he kept pushing the stumbling kids, fumbling for the door before it finally opened as he felt hot breath on his back. 

“Go,” he had time to wheeze. “Just go—”

Claws pushed him down, his torso out in the night air, the children scrambling away as the boy towered over him. Finstock was forced to look at the kid’s face, at how his claws dug into his own skin. 

“It can’t feel my face. I can’t _feel my face!”_ His breaths came in rapid heaves, hot spit landing on Finstock’s cheek. “It hurts—” his lips pulled back to reveal sharp fangs. “What’s happening to me?”

The kid fell to his knees and Finstock wheezed from the weight on his chest, the teenager’s face pressed into the crook of Finstock’s right elbow. Finstock heard the rest of the wedding party gathering close, cautious. He waved weakly with his left hand at the worried bride and groom as he gently touched kid with his right. 

“Just take it easy, all right? You’re gonna be fine.” Finstock felt the kid’s ribs shifting under his right hand. “Breathe with me, all right? You’re gonna be fine. Just breathe, and we’ll get you some water.” 

The kid’s breath was hot against Finstock’s arm. 

_It’s gonna be okay,_ Finstock thought deliriously. _He just needs water. He’s going to be fi—_

Razor-sharp teeth dug into his arm, piercing down to the bone. He didn’t know who screamed louder, him or the children in the garden. The boy wept, sobbing even though his fangs were stubbornly lodged in Finstock’s arm. The wedding party leapt into action, pulling the kid back, but the kid didn’t want to let go…

And if a werewolf didn’t want to let go… _they didn’t let go._

Finstock passed out to the sound of frightened howls and his right arm tearing into wet bunches of viscera between a hyperventilating kid’s teeth. 

::::

He didn’t die of blood loss. 

The first thing he saw was Bill Hoyer’s tear-streaked face. Finstock sat up and noticed a few things in quick succession: 

He was in a very comfortable bed that wasn’t his, someone had removed his shirt, and his right arm had been amputated. 

Bill Hoyer, his wife, the kid, and a dark-skinned man were in the intimate room that was full of Victorian furniture and tasteful wall tapestries. He stared at what remained of his right arm. There was no blood, no bruising. Flesh just covered where his arm ended like he’d been born that way. 

“I’m sorry,” the dark-skinned man bowed his head in mourning. “There were too many bone fragments, separated tendons, and ligaments. I’m not used to that intricate kind of mending. It was safer to just… remove it.” His eyes were dark and unrelenting as they met Finstock’s. “Luckily, from one mage to another, the loss of such a physical appendage would never harm your magic.” 

Finstock swallowed, his throat bone-dry.

“Right.” He fought down nausea in order to offer a weak smile. “Lucky me.” He went to rub his eyes, but then his right shoulder jerked. He flinched, then used his left hand instead. He glanced at the boy, his shirt in shreds and dried blood caked on the poor kid’s hands. “How are you? Are you okay?” 

The kid, such a _young kid_ with freckles and red-rimmed eyes, collapsed into body-wracking sobs.

“I’m sorry,” the words were like a knife twisting in Finstock’s stomach as the kid struggled to wipe his eyes faster than his tears could flow. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“We are _very sorry,_ Mr. Finstock.” Mr. Hoyer bowed his head. “My son Caleb had been sneaking your drinks and lost control of himself.” 

Finstock’s heart stuttered in his chest and he ignored the dull, ghostly tingle that tickled his right shoulder. He moved his left hand so he could gently touch Caleb’s knee. The boy whimpered, his shoulders caving inward. Finstock hated the tension in the room, the heavy _gloom_ that was all aimed on this boy. 

“Hey.” Finstock squeezed him. “It’s okay. This isn’t your fault, all right?” His entire body felt sour, curdled, spoiled as he struggled to get the kid to look at him. “It was powerful magic. Adults only stuff. You’re,” Finstock’s throat bobbed as he struggled to hold back bile, “you’re too young for that kind of thing.” 

Their healer’s gaze dug into him. Finstock refused to meet it as he awkwardly pulled on his suit jacket, the sleeves crusted in his blood. He gave up on his right side, just letting the jacket hang awkwardly over his shoulder. Bill had gathered his tips and the check he gave Finstock was more than quadruple the amount he’d previously agreed on. 

The tingles spread from his shoulder throughout his entire body, tiny pricks that made his skin jump the moment he stepped out into the witching hour air. Dawn was still hours away. 

Caleb helped him move the remaining jugs of his cocktail into the back of his truck while his parents watched from the porch. 

Finstock lugged the last of it into the truck’s bed, his left arm already throbbing from the effort. He flexed his fingers and when he turned, Caleb hugged him. 

“I’m sorry.” Finstock’s hand fell on Caleb’s shoulder, ready to insist that _he wasn’t at fault,_ but Caleb kept talking. “I just… I wanted to feel what they were feeling. Everyone looked so happy. I wanted… I wanted to feel it. And I did, at first. But then… then it was too much and,” he pressed his face closer to Finstock’s chest, like he was trying to merge with Finstock’s heartbeat. “I’m sorry.”

When Finstock had won his first Chemistry championships, he could hardly feel the trophy in his hand, he was practically vibrating out of his beaten up sneakers. He smiled so wide, _too wide,_ as his mother would say, _your face gets all wrinkly and ugly, you need to restrain yourself, Robert._

He had been so ecstatic that he forgot to smile the way his mother told him, he just… he just pulled his lips back into the grin he was feeling. He had thought, _I’m going to be the best chemist in the world._ He didn’t think about how more kids were leaving his class, or that Mr. Chamberlin kept sighing every time the principal came by to talk about textbooks. All he could think of, with Mr. Chamerblin’s hand on his shoulder and his face _aching_ from happiness was, _I’m going to be a doctor. I’m going to help people._

Periwinkle light outlined the horizon. The driver door window was cold against Finstock’s back. 

_I can still be helpful,_ Finstock thought as he gently separated himself from Caleb. He’d get as far away as he could, not talk to anyone, dump out what was left of his mixture, and only spend his money on the bare necessities. 

“Let me know that you’re okay,” Caleb insisted. “Whenever you get to… wherever you’re going,” and Finstock hated that his first thought was to ask how the kid knew that, to wonder if the Magic Reclamation had gone differently, would they have gotten MRIs and mapped out the werewolf nervous system? If only they could have really _delved_ into the biology behind them— _Christ, it’s like the last six hours didn’t register at all._ He shuddered and Caleb’s face fell. “Please.” 

“Yeah.” Finstock swallowed, guilt drowning his curiosity. “Yeah, of course. What’s your address? I’ll send you a postcard.” 

He took down the Hoyer’s home address, got in his truck, and drove home. He dug out the stacks of cash he’d shoved into his mattress and under the floorboards, meticulously gathered every notebook he’d ever scribbled in, and threw it in his truck. 

He rolled down the window and let the wind tangle in his hair as the sun bled across the highway. 

Bobby Finstock was going to drive faraway, somewhere no one would follow, and he’d never fuck with chemistry again. 

::::

At least, that was the plan. 

“I didn’t…” Finstock swayed on his feet, blinking slowly as anxiety roared to life in his chest. “I didn’t leave notes in the library.” 

The kid— _Stiles_ — grinned. 

“You had the paper on the books you took out from the library. It left indentations. Not _all_ notes you took were imprinted on the pages, I’m sure, but enough for me to get started.” 

Stiles went off like a rocket, layers of awkwardness falling away to pure enthusiasm. He spoke faster than he could gesture, and Finstock struggled to keep up. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Finstock stepped back until his shoulder hit the side of his trailer. “You replicated my formula? The opium laced with wolfsbane?” 

“Yeah, but I didn’t do your thing, with the cocktails. No offense or anything, I’m sure it was great, I just had… something came up and I had to deviate from the pleasure— I mean, I still used it,” Sitles winced, “so sorry, but um, I did other work myself. I didn’t just rip you off or anything, I promise.” 

Just over fifteen years had passed since he’d driven the _fuck_ out of Beacon Hills. Fifteen years of Mojitos and sitting, sipping, and staring. 

He swallowed past years of sand and grit. 

“You… so you found some of my notes and the ratio of wolfsbane to opium I’d use… and then what?” 

“Well,” Stiles wrung his hands for a moment. “I don’t know how close you got with Packs or anything, but a lot of them are spread out. Not all of them are blood related and so,” Stiles shrugged, “it’s easier for them to lie to each other. The mixtures I made will… compel wolves to tell the truth with the right delivery.” 

“Oh yeah, hot-shot?” Finstock crossed his arms to hide how hard they were shaking. “What’s your formula?” Stiles told him. Finstock forced himself to focus as Stiles kept talking faster and faster, and the moment the word _mandrake_ entered the conversation, Finstock held up his hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. _Mandrake?”_ Finstock swallowed. “How did you test it out? I figured out the ratio for opium. Mandrake… Mandrake is completely different.”

“I know.” Stiles scratched the tip of his nose, his smile wavering. “I know. I had to figure out that ratio myself.” 

Finstock glared down at Stiles, his frown bone-deep.

“No shit. How did you do it?” 

Stiles frowned. 

“I did what you did. Self-experimentation, and I used a digital recorder in case I couldn’t write down the sensations.” 

“Jesus,” Finstock stumbled forward, Stiles hurrying to get out of his way as Finstock collapsed into his kiddie-pool. “Jesus Christ.” 

Between his frantic internal screaming and deafening heartbeat, he heard Stiles fling open Finstock’s screen door. _It was just for money._ Finstock was more than dizzy. His head felt detached, like it had been delicately severed from his body so only the bare minimum of arteries remained. He felt floaty and numb, his eyes blinking out of synch.

_I just didn’t want wolves to fight in Moe’s bar anymore. If they were high, they’d be too happy to do anything but indulge._

His intentions didn’t matter. Some kid found the books he’d read, the notes he’d written, and had _poisoned_ himself. He’d _poisoned himself_ in the name of science. 

_Jesus fucking Christ, Finstock. You didn’t run far enough._

“Here.” Slender fingers gently held Finstock’s head up. “Take a drink.” 

Finstock grabbed the bottle of water and drank half of it. His legs hung over the side of the pool as the water seeped into his Hawaiian shirt. 

_Fuck,_ Finstock thought. 

_Fuck._

::::

Rural Nevada skies were the darkest Stiles had ever seen. 

He laid in the back of Robert Finstock’s truck bed, his sleeping bag tucked up to his neck and the hard plastic digging into his back as his breath puffed out in thick fog in front of him. 

The sky was as if a giant had spilled ink across a canvas, so deep, black, and all encompassing that Stiles truly felt small. Beacon Hills had been so small, Stiles could walk from one end of town to the other, and even when he started making money, he felt as though his town was shrinking while he remained the same size. Shrinking and shrinking until Stiles felt like he was locked in his trailer with a father who wouldn’t look at him anymore. 

Under the dark, star-speckled sky, Stiles finally felt small. His world was getting bigger, and he was microscopic. 

It was comforting. 

He heaved out a long sigh, his breath a pillowy white cloud. Finstock had shoved his old notes into Stiles’s hands with a ground out, “Knock your fucking socks off. Don’t bother me,” before he slammed the trailer door in Stiles’s face. 

Stiles had read as much as he could, all that remaining day until the battery ran out on his travel-sized flashlight. 

All that knowledge reminded Stiles of his first day of school. He had headaches for weeks from the new information, from drinking a gluttonous amount of knowledge wherever he could find it. While every throb brought pain, it was also a reminder of all the wonderful pages Stiles had read. He’d just managed to finish up Finstock’s notes on microenvironments and filtration systems when his flashlight had sputtered out. 

He stretched out his legs, his back popping in a few places. He hugged the journal he’d been reading to his chest, his eyes drooping lower with each breath. 

_Out here, I could just disappear and no one would know._

That thought alone wiped out his headache and left him with a dreamy smile. 

Just as he was about to slip unconscious, a flattened out palm slapped the side of the truck. Stiles jumped up, sputtering as he got tangled in his sleeping bag. Finstock, _the actual Robert Finstock,_ watched Stiles flounder in the back of his truck for a few seconds with an unimpressed pout. 

“You’re still here, huh?” 

Stiles bit his lip, worried lines forming between his eyebrows. 

“Yeah.” 

He didn’t mean to say it like a question. He watched Finstock’s eyes bore into his face, flickering over Stiles’s hands, shoulders, and face. He wondered what he saw… if Stiles looked like some dumb kid, a shallow imitator. 

“Did you eat?” 

“Um, I had some snacks—”

As if on cue, Stiles’s stomach gurgled. He flushed and Finstock rolled his eyes. 

“Get out of my truck.” 

Stiles scrambled, bumping his fingers too hard against the truck bed, wincing at how it stung down to his bones. 

“Wait, wait, can I please stay until morning? It’s pitch dark out here—”

“Come on.” Finstock’s face softened. Well, at least two deep lines eased around his mouth. He was still intimidating as shit though. “I’ll cook you something. I’d ask when the last time you had a decent meal was, but I honestly don’t want to know. Come on,” he held out his only hand. “It’s fucking freezing out here.” 

His palm was warm and calloused. Stiles followed him, out of the dark sea of the world and into the silver trailer. 

Warmth wrapped around him. Stiles hadn’t gotten that good of a look when he’d rushed in to get Finstock water. Now he took his time, looking at the worn down furniture, the small but efficient kitchen, postcards taped to the refrigerator which had migrated to nearby cabinets, and a shower curtain that was pushed to the side to reveal a sleeping area. 

As all the visual information was coming in, all Stiles could think was, _it smells like him._

It was funny, the things Stiles forgot once he started living on the road. People had _smells_ to them, always an undefinable mixture of soap, sweat, and something baseline and unique. 

Finstock had a small counter with two stool, one of which was covered in dust. Stiles pulled up the dusty one, wincing as it squealed along the warped linoleum. 

“Thank you.” Finstock glanced up from the garlic he’d been slicing. “For letting me read your notes. And for letting me stay.” Stiles swallowed as Finstock’s eyebrows crept higher and higher. “And, uh, dinner.” 

“You haven’t had dinner yet.” Finstock snorted with a roll of his eyes. “It might taste like shit.” The corner of Finstock’s mouth twitched, like he couldn’t commit to keeping a straight face. He cleared his throat. “You like stir fry?” 

“Uh, sure.” Stiles straightened in his chair. “Yes.”

Finstock narrowed his eyes like he didn’t buy Stiles’s bullshit for one second, like he _knew_ the real answer was _I don’t know._ Finstock shrugged with his right shoulder. 

“Buckle-up, buttercup.” 

It was mesmerizing, watching Finstock cook. He only had his left hand, which Stiles could tell hadn’t been his dominant hand because there was a noticeable decline in his penmanship in his journals that gradually got better. Finstock was adept now, twirling the spatula in his hand as he pushed shrimp, sugar, chiles, fish sauce, and garlic around in a bowl before he added the shrimp to a sizzling pan. 

Finstock gently flipped the shrimp before he took the pan by the handle and tossed the entire dish expertly. A few moments later, Stiles was setting out plates and Finstock served him first, giving Stiles a noticeably larger portion. 

Stiles didn’t bother waiting for small-talk. He dug in, and immediately his eyes widened at the warm flavor. His almost dropped his fork with how fast he went to grab more. 

“This is,” Stiles licked his lips, chasing the taste of dinner, “so good.” 

Finstock snorted. 

“Glad to hear it.” When Stiles finished and both of their plates sat in the sink, Finstock arched his back and cracked his neck before he sat forward, his elbow resting on the inside of his knee. “So,” Finstock narrowed his eyes as he chanced a rare smile, “you got a plan?” 

Stiles’s heart beat faster. It wasn’t a total victory, not yet, but it was a step in the right direction. 

::::

Ice-cold air blew down from the Walmart ceiling vents. Stiles tilted his head back, closing his eyes as the air chilled the layer of sweat that was inescapable in the desert.

“Thank you, Lord,” Stiles dropped his head back, shivering at the blast of cold down his back and chest, “for the air conditioning we’re going to partake in today.”

Finstock snorted beside him. 

“Amen.” Stiles got a cart and was going to start their usual loop of snacks, plants, home improvement, and last stop being food and refrigerated goods, but Finstock stopped him, turning the cart to the right instead. “You need new clothes.” 

Stiles looked down at himself. 

“Why? These are the clothes I always wear.” 

“Exactly.” Finstock rolled his eyes and pulled the cart forward. “And it’s been a couple years, you keep growing like a weed, and soon those jeans are going to be shorts.” 

“Eugh!” Stiles shuddered. “Gross, then I’d look like you.” 

That earned him a shove followed by cackling laughter. 

Stiles was nineteen years old and he laughed until he cried in the Men’s Clothing section at the local Walmart. Finstock kept pulling one outrageous shirt after another until Stiles couldn’t breathe, his eyes watering and Finstock clicking his tongue with a “okay, okay maybe not _that_ one, but what about this?”

After Stiles wiped his eyes, Finstock let him catch his breath.

“Yeah, uh, loud clothes aren’t really me.” 

Finstock nodded.

“Fair enough.” They pushed their carts lazily through clothing section. “All I can say is that you’ll need long sleeves. Other than that, the world is your fashion oyster.” 

“Oh my God, the term _fashion oyster_ is banned.” Stiles shook his head, his face split in a wild grin that Finstock matched easily. “Gone. Terminated.” 

Stiles couldn’t remember laughing this hard in his life. His face ached he smiled so much on a day-to-day, and the first few weeks he stayed with Finstock, both of them had lost their voices and had to run to the pharmacy for throat lozenges. Stiles read Finstock’s notes, and he read Stiles’s notes, sitting in lawn-chairs with their feet in the ice-cold kiddie pool.

_He gets it,_ Stiles thought as he tossed some shirts and pants into the cart, grabbing some sewing needles along the way. 

They moved on, grabbed some watering cans before they started to plan out their meals for the next month. Finstock elbowed Stiles out of the way to pay, and then they were loading up the truck, back on the blazing hot road. Stiles fiddled with the radio and a familiar piano riff began to play. 

Finstock wiggled his fingers on the wheel. 

“Crank it!” 

Stiles obeyed with a salute and rolled down the window, throwing his arm out as Finstock wove the truck over the double-yellow lines with a bubbling series of giggles. The road was open, the sun was blazing, and Stiles threw his head back, singing with Finstock. 

_“Tumble out of bed and stumble to the kitchen,”_ Finstock crowed. 

_“Pour myself a cup of ambition and yawn and stretch and try to come to life,”_ Stiles answered

Wind whipped through their hair as they belted out Dolly Parton at the top of their lungs. 

It would take Deucalion another three years to get wind of mage Stiles Stilinski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh everyone let’s celebrate. It’s been a long gap, the new year was kind of tumultuous in my job and life so it was tough to focus, but I’m back! Things might be slow to pick up but things are evening out for the time being. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you like our little flashbacks, and of course the love of my life, Bobby Finstock. Please let me know what you think, even if you weren’t a fan!
> 
> The art is by the amazing [**trashiny-draws**](https://trashiny-draws.tumblr.com/) who was so nice to make these for me. Give them love!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and other things I do in relation to these fics. [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!


	3. The Lone Alpha’s Quest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing that this young man— who seemed so harmless in a plaid shirt, hole-ridden jeans, and sneakers with soles with holes in the heel— had reached inside and wrung the truth out of an Alpha made Peter weak in the knees.

Despite a prominent hole in the ceiling where moss and flowers stretched out to catch sunbeams and rain, the New York Public Library was still a breathtaking monument to behold. 

Peter stepped through the layered wards, offering a polite smile to the witch who was on duty. She nodded in his direction, distant and polite.

The librarians held themselves with strict posture, a practiced ease that said, _We are happy to help and preserve the knowledge not lost to the Reclamation, but if you misbehave the wards will throw you back out onto the streets._ Peter was a regular, and had never felt so much as a tingle at the back of his neck for any wrongdoing.

Footsteps echoed over cracked marble. Rain fell through the holes in the ceiling, making vines and flower petals shiver. He counted the aisles until he got to where he’d last left off, and then counted the books, his mouth moving along with the numbers, until he finally reached the next book in the long _line_ of books he’d conquered. He reached up for an old book, promising him historical journals from the 1920s—

A smaller, lithe hand bumped against Peter’s. 

“Oh.” He turned to see a young woman still her hand. She had long black hair and brown eyes that were bright despite her sleepy demeanor. She wore bohemian clothes, holes at the elbows of her breezy flax jacket, and patches sewn on the knees of her trousers. “I didn’t see you.” 

She smiled breezily but didn’t move her hand. Peter cleared his throat. 

“Do you mind?”

“I do, actually.” She pointed to the far end of the aisle, the opposite side of where Peter entered. “I started down there, and have been making my way through every book. This is next on my list.” 

Startled laughter spilled out of Peter’s mouth. 

“Me too.” He pointed from where he came. “I started on the other end.” 

The young woman’s eyes widened and she lost her fatigued posture. A small electric shock jumped up Peter’s fingers. His breath caught in his throat as she grinned, pulling the book from her shelf while offering her arm. 

“Would you like to read it with me?” 

Peter met Kira Yukimura while throwing himself into the next row of stacks, trying to dig himself out of his _latest attempt for attention,_ according to his sister. 

Whenever he tried to describe the disconnect he felt from her, from the Pack system as an entirety, that was how she’d dismiss him. Peter Hale, ever the _dramatic,_ always needing eyes on him. Peter couldn’t deny that he loved attention, that he _bathed_ in the affection and validation from strangers and peers alike… but that wasn’t what kept a hollow bell ringing in his chest.

The ache in his bones grew heavier the more Pack and Territory meetings he had to attend. All the Packs lined up the same, Alpha, Second, Betas, Omegas. The dynamics, all the same. He watched Talia fix Cora’s sleeves on her dress, sitting her with her brother all in the same kind of line as the rest of the other Packs. Monotony was death, and Peter didn’t want his nieces and nephews to fall to the decay that had its hooks in his sister. 

_“Why do we even have these rules and hierarchies? We’re more than just rabid wolves, we have intelligence. We are **better** than that, Talia. Why the **fuck** would we stick to the same rules that govnered us when we were just animals—?”_

Talia had lunged forward and Peter thought _Christ, she’s going to hit me,_ only for her hand to press firmly over his mouth. His back hit the bookshelves in his sister’s study and her eyes bled red. 

Peter’s eyes shifted, reflecting the same color back. An anomaly that he had _hoped_ would give Talia the courage to branch _out_ of tradition. Two Alphas… two Alphas who would lift the Hale name above the squabbling repetition in other Packs. Instead, she’d pressed him against the bookshelves and growled. 

_“Don’t speak like that in this house. Get out, get over whatever it is you’re going through, and come back when you’re ready to be a Hale Second.”_

Peter spent all his waking hours at the library

Kira led him one of the long wooden tables on the ground floor. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, turning one page at a time. Peter noticed that Kira matched his reading pace perfectly after five pages, neither needing to whisper _turn_ anymore. It was a book about Prohibition, and a name kept repeating, delicately woven through the historical stories. 

_Arnold Rothstein._

By the time they were finished, Peter’s thighs and back ached. Kira closed the book, rubbing dust from her eyes. Peter jumped on the balls of his feet in order for his muscles to recover. It took ten seconds, and then the pain was gone.

“I envy humans.” Kira glanced up at that, one eyebrow raised while she rested her chin on her fist. Peter leaned his hip against the table, only hesitating for a moment. “They don’t have ingrained power structures. Well, they _did,_ and some _do,_ but… it’s not wired inside of them to obey. People broke those barriers all the time. Like Arnold,” Peter dragged his finger down the book’s cover, “instead of relying on background, he only wanted what was best.” 

“He was an exception.” Kira walked the book back to the shelf, finding the previous spot easily. “There are many humans that are bound by rules and tradition, just like the wolves are.” 

The rain had lightened up as the stars peeked through the clouds. Kira left the library and Peter walked with her on wet broken cement with grass and moss overtaking it until they reached Central Park. 

“Here’s the thing though,” Peter gestured with a bottle of wine that Kira had pulled out of her bag. It was spiked with wolfsbane, just the right amount for Peter to get a light buzz. “When we think about existence, in the long and short of it, humans have,” he hiccuped, “proven to be exceptional while the rest of us,” he swept his hand across an empty hill, “just keep doing what we’ve always done. Wolves falling into line and I’m sure you,” Peter paused, and he passed the wine bottle back to Kira, “oh dear, I apologize, I don’t know what you are.” 

Kira took the bottle, taking a long pull. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her cheeks pink. 

“I am not a wolf. I’m a kitsune.” 

Peter whistled. 

“Wow. So you’ve seen some history.” Kira shrugged, her eyes twinkling. Peter opened his fingers and wiggled them. “Come on, give me more wine. If I’m drunk enough, I won’t care about asking your age.” 

She laughed, handing him the bottle. 

“Older than you by,” she narrowed her eyes, taking in Peter’s laugh lines, “at least six times.” 

Peter drank until he couldn’t feel the scorn from his sister, until each breath of air was an exquisite refreshment. He reached clarity when he spilled wine down his shirt. 

“I figured it out.” Peter swayed to keep from falling into the nearby duck pond. Kira caught him, pulling on his shirt. Both of their balances were off-kilter, and after they landed in the claybed by the riverbank, Peter grinned. “I will be more like Arnold Rothstein. I’m an Alpha, but that doesn’t matter if the rest of my Pack isn’t entirely wolves. We could navigate a new dynamic, together, the best of the best, from all reaches of earth. We would,” Peter grinned, the alcohol feeding his wolf, making him comfortable shifting, his eyes red and his fangs long as he grinned at Kira, “we will put all other creatures to _shame_ with what we accomplish.”

He remembered the shine of Kira’s teeth in the setting sun, and the next thing he knew he was waking up, head throbbing, and his fingers full of… silky white fur. He made a soft noise, a _buh_ that roused whatever being slumbered around him. With a lazy flourish, the fur disappeared and a humanoid body sat up next to him. Kira pushed hair back from her face. 

“Are you hung over?” 

Peter shook his head. 

“I don’t think wolves get hangovers.” 

Kira was clothed, looking just as disheveled as she was yesterday in the library. She drew her legs close to her, looping her arm around a knees. The moment he met her gaze, she shed her tired facade. Peter froze, his hands jerking to cover himself up even though he was fully clothed. Kira didn’t move, her _humanoid_ appearance didn’t shift, but Peter could still hear rustling around him, the brief whisper of fur against his ankle before it was withdrawn. 

He’d never been so close to an ancient creature. Werewolves were young, not nearly as old as some of the beings that walked the earth long before written memory. They were in a tent, simple poles holding up a quilt. It shouldn’t have provided any shelter at all, but the air was warm, and when Peter glanced out, he saw that rain poured down in sheets in the rest of the park. 

“Were you serious about what you said yesterday?” 

The whisper of rain hummed above them. Peter swallowed. 

“Yes. Very.” The series of knots that had been growing in his chest since birth loosened. “More than anything.” 

Kira smiled, slow. Eternal. 

“Then I would like to help you. It’s fine _reading_ about history,” a crack of thunder preceded a flash of lightning. Electricity crackled in the air, buzzing across the small hairs on the back of Peter’s neck. Kira’s skin bloomed under the storm, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She held out her hand. “I want to see it happen with my own eyes.” 

When he shook her hand the world paused and whispered _remember exactly how you feel at this moment._ Peter’s skin slid against staticy palms. Her fingers were cold. _Remember,_ the world demanded, _this is when it all began._

::::

Cora was Peter’s favorite. He wasn’t _supposed_ to have favorites, but then again, Peter wasn’t _supposed_ to do a lot of things that he carried on doing anyway. 

“Uncle Peter,” Cora helped Peter lug bag after bag out of his room, “are you sure about this?” Talia, Derek, and Laura were suspiciously _busy_ at a local farmer’s market. Talia didn’t say two words before she swept her children out of the house, barely pausing at Cora’s refusal to join. Peter knew Cora would pay for it later with harsh words over a tense dinner. Cora wiped sweat from her brow, staring at Peter’s car. “She just seems a little strange. Didn’t you meet her like… a few months ago?” 

Kira lounged on the roof of the car, draped in her sleepy, bed-head facade she wore like armor. A clever disguise as a spacey woman who stretched out across the roof like a disinterested cat just after a large lunch. She had on cheap yellow sunglasses and her hair was tied up into a sloppy bun. She waved at Cora. 

“You sure you don’t want help?”

“No, we’re almost done.” 

Cora shouted back, before staring up at Peter. He ducked down to kiss away the worry lines on her forehead. 

“She’s not afraid of breaking tradition. It’s a rare trait.” He winked and was rewarded with a wobbly smile. “She’s sharper than she looks.” 

Cora hummed, unsure but still carried the last of the bags to the car, fitting them neatly in the trunk. 

“You’ll text, right?” 

Cora was the only member of the Hale Pack to ask if he’d maintain contact. Derek was too intimidated by Laura, who was intimidated by Talia to maintain cold silence. Cora opting to stay behind would come across as weak, too distraught to put on a brave face to the public. The reality was that she was the only one brave enough to say goodbye. 

“Of course,” Peter kissed her forehead. “And you’ll be good for your mother.”

Peter kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, at the image of his favorite niece waiting on the porch, until she was no longer visible. 

:::: 

The problem with searching for the unique was that it was a pure _know it when I see it_ situation. Peter did his best to keep a smile on his face during mage showcasings, but Kira was usually out like a light within five minutes, head tilted back and sunglasses sliding up her forehead. There was only so many fire breathers and colorful fireworks they could take before it all blurred into one boring spectacle. Peter gently shook Kira’s shoulder after a yawn-filled magic show in Minneapolis. 

“M’awake.” Kira blinked her eyes open, taking in the empty bar and the lingering performers shooting her dirty looks. “No hidden surprises?”

Peter shook his head even though it was a question that, he had the feeling, she already knew the answer to. 

“You good to drive?” 

Kira held her hand out for the keys. 

Highways became their sanctuaries sandwiched between disappointments. As Kira had said after one forgettable showcase, _“Patience is key, but I can afford to be more patient than you.”_ Peter had never been so aware of _time_ until he was wasting it on mediocre magic users. At least on the highway, they were hurtling into the dark with anticipation pushing them forward. Peter rolled down the windows and closed his eyes against the wind. 

“We’ll have to check in with the Fernandez Pack, they’re the dominating werewolf presence in Arizona, and there’s no way we won’t be through the territory in under day.” 

Kira pumped the gas, hair whipping around her in the midnight wind. 

“You’re right. These traditions are tedious. And a waste of gas.” 

Peter laughed, and hung onto that sliver of amusement when they pulled through the Fernandez Estate’s gates hours later just as the sun began to warm the tangerine sands. Heat was inescapable and the sweat made Peter’s patience run thin. If his journey to find a decent mage continued on the way it had been going so far, Peter was sure he wouldn’t stay for an entire show, he’d just take Kira and move on. 

He closed the door, leaning on his car and waiting in the driveway, Kira by his side. 

They’d asked for permission to remain in a territory before. It was a tedious necessity, filled with Alphas yawning their way through the usual grandstanding and passive aggressive posturing. Kira could barely keep her eyes open during the meetings. The last one, Peter carried a snoring Kira back to the car, almost dropping her when she opened her eyes and winked at the growling Alpha glaring daggers into their back. 

The first odd thing Peter noticed was how _awake_ Kira was. Her eyes had no trace of boredom. Her shoulders were tense. 

“Kira,” Peter ignored the Pack that slowly emerged from the house, studying his companion’s frown. “Is everything all right?”

“No.” Kira jerked her chin up. “Something’s wrong.” 

Peter turned to the porch and froze. Something _was_ wrong. The Pack was done leaving the house, but… but that _couldn’t_ be right because only _half_ were on the porch. Alpha Desiree Fernandez had more wrinkles, her eyes sunken and hollow. Peter approached them, Kira at his side.

“Where’s the rest of your Pack?” 

Desiree’s face shuttered and Peter’s blood ran cold despite the blazing sun on his back. The rest of the Pack looked haunted, not sweating despite the heat, and not meeting Peter and Kira’s questioning gazes. Desiree took a half-step back, holding out her hand. 

“Come in. The heat only gets worse.” 

The Fernandez Pack was a southwest staple, always sending representatives of their Alpha if Desiree could not attend herself. Peter remembered that their opinions on legislature were mostly hands off. They were a strong Pack… and Peter would _never_ think they’d be one to fold or for the herd to come close to looking _thinned out._

Ice rattled in a pitcher, the glass already sweating condensation and it was barely eight o’clock. Glimmers of yellow lemon wedges sparkled in the water. The rugs were cross-woven, faded, and not like the shag or ornamental rugs that Peter was used to seeing in his sister’s hallways. Peter had been prepared for being scrutinized, some lone Alpha asking to stay on their territory. Instead, he was being aggressively _ignored_ by the rest of the Fernandez Pack. 

“We,” Peter cleared his suddenly dry throat, “just wanted to ask permission to be on your territory for more than twenty-four hours.” 

Alpha Fernandez ushered them into her study, pouring them water into mismatched glasses. 

“Stay as long as you need. It’s not a problem.” She glanced at Peter, some of the sheen clearing from her eyes. “You’re far from home, aren’t you? Is Talia looking to relocate?”

None of the other Alphas bothered to ask. Once the parade of prowess was over, it was always an uninterested wave of the hand. 

Desiree was the first to really _look_ at Peter and Kira, to really take in their strange companionship. 

“No. She’s staying where she is. I’m taking a sabbatical.” 

Confusion rippled across Desiree’s face. She leaned back in her chair, her nails clicking across her desk a few times. 

“Unusual,” she sighed, “but maybe for the best.” 

Kira put her glass down on a coaster. 

“What happened to your Pack?” 

Ice fell down in the pitcher, punctuating the deep frown that darkened Desiree’s face. She glanced at Kira, her eyes flashing red. 

“Have you heard the name Deucalion Blackwood?” 

Kira shook her head, looking up at Peter. Peter chased the vague feeling of recognition and distaste. 

“The trust-fund idiot? What about him?” 

The few things Peter remembered about the Blackwood Alpha was that he had terrible taste and was always the last to laugh at a joke. Alpha Fernandez’s lips twitched up for a brief moment, the flicker of delight dying the moment it struggled to reach her eyes. 

“He’s still an idiot… but now he’s a power hungry idiot.” 

Peter and Kira leaned forward as Alpha Desiree Fernandez drew in a hallowed breath to describe how things had changed. Deucalion wasn’t just the pigheaded moron at a party. His Pack was expanding. 

“It started off as rumors. An urban legend, an Alpha who killed his own Pack because he believed it made him stronger. Just scary stories kids told each other… but then it changed. Then it became a _Pack_ of Alphas, bound together by the blood they shed by murdering their Packs.” 

Peter tilted his head to the side.

“I heard that story. My grandmother used to tell it to Talia and I around Halloween. It’s a fairytale.” 

“Maybe it _was_ just a story, but Deucalion is actually doing it.” Desiree shuddered, her lips pulling downward in a sour frown. “He came with two other Alphas and made his demand. I, of course, refused. They… they killed who they viewed to be weak… and they asked me again. When I refused, I thought he’d kill me. Even though it would prompt a war for his head from other Packs, I thought… maybe he’d lost it completely.” 

If Talia had been in Peter’s seat, she would have offered condolences. She would have empathized, whether out of propriety or actual emotional truth. 

Peter was drunk on morbid fascination. 

“What did he do?” 

Desiree breathed slowly, stealing the remaining warmth from the room. 

“He made me wait, here in this office, tied to a chair, and then… one of _his_ cars pulled up.” 

What she described next was impossible.

_He had a young mage driven out to our home, but I’ve never seen any mage like him before._ Dressed in tight pants and a shirt with a plunging back, with a long pale neck that, even in their terror, had Alpha Fernandez and the rest of her Pack staring, mouths _watering_ for a taste. A young man who, while seemingly under the employ of Deucalion, smelled uniquely removed from the Blackwood Pack. 

He was distant and rude to Deucalion, and after Deucalion said he _needed to know who Desiree’s strongest Betas were,_ the man simply named a price. 

“And then he got started.” Desiree’s eyes shimmered in pain and… to Peter’s shock, pleasure. “He was nice. Even saying that out loud tastes… terrible on my tongue but it’s true. He never looked at me with the bored disdain that he used with Deucalion. He was very simple. His magic hungered for honesty, and the more I resisted, the more it would hurt.” 

Kira’s throat clicked when she swallowed. 

“Did it?” Kira’s lips were bitten red, her cheeks pink. “Did it hurt?” 

Alpha Fernandez’s smile was skeletal, the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes deepening. 

“Yes. I thought I’d be able to endure it, but… he was right.” Her shoulders hunched, her frame shrinking. Peter had _never_ seen an Alpha try to make themselves small. “It felt… like he was inside me,” her fingers pressed against her chest, “every time I lied, I felt like I was burning from the inside. No matter how long I waited, it only got worse. He promised that once I told the truth, that the pain would end and be replaced with…” Peter’s mouth went dry at the blush that crawled up Alpha Fernandez’s neck. “Bliss.”

She gave them two names, her best Betas, and they were taken, forced to live as a part of the Blackwood Pack. 

“Deucalion planted his feet in Vegas, am I remembering that correctly?” 

Desiree Fernandez glanced up, her salt and pepper hair falling out of her loose bun in thin wisps. Kira slipped her hand into Peter’s, her skin cold and her fingers trembling. Peter squeezed until his knuckles bled white. 

:::: 

_I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it._

That sentiment had never been more accurate the moment Peter just so happened to glance into a diner to see… _exactly_ who he was looking for. After questioning the rest of the Fernandez Pack, he was able to get a clear picture of the young man who had harnessed magic in a way that Peter had never heard of. 

Kira stayed outside with a _be careful, Peter._ The moment the bell rang above his head at the door, Peter knew he was being watched. Betas, all stolen from other Packs, shifted their haunted gaze over him the moment he sat next to the young man. 

If Peter had just given the young man a passing glance, he still would have paused, and taken his time on the next look. Pale skin, dotted with moles like a mockery of a constellation, and soft lips that made Peter’s throat parched. Knowing that this young man— who seemed so harmless in a plaid shirt, hole-ridden jeans, and sneakers with soles with holes in the heel— had reached inside and wrung the truth out of an Alpha made Peter weak in the knees. 

He restrained himself, wrote his number on the back of the diner card after a few playful minutes of flirtation.

Peter left the diner, knowing the next time he would see Stiles, it would be when the mage was in his element.

::::

“Mr. Hale, I ask that you be honest with me.” 

Deucalion’s Pack filled the room. Peter was tied to a garish chair with gold painted on the wooden grooves, bits of it starting to flake off onto the beige carpet. They grabbed him and Kira while they were walking down the Vegas strip, their grip tight and their words laced with aggression. Peter complied, and soon he was tied to a chair, Kira off in a corner bracketed by two big, dead-eyed Betas. 

The rope was mostly for show. Peter could get out of it, but Deucalion growled low in his throat as the last of the knots were finished. 

_No touching,_ he said as he sent off a text. 

Gentle, leather-clad fingers tapped on Peter’s shoulders as Stiles stood between Peter’s open legs. 

“The mind has the inherent urge to be truthful. I’m going to use magic to open your mind to mine.” 

Stiles was a vision of ethereal power, shadowy tendrils of anger pulling at his face. Peter’s slight twinge of guilt was smothered by his racing heart, his curiosity ravenous. He smelled odd, a mixture of earth, something burnt, and plastic. He stepped close, until his magenta pants were a blur at the bottom of Peter’s eyes. 

All Peter could see was a long, pale neck as those long fingers drifted up to Peter’s hair, the leather creaking. The more Stiles moved, the scent of different wolves’ arousal grew in the air, the long slit in his shirt parting, exposing more of his delicious back. Peter only had seconds to be jealous that he was missing such a sight before those fingers tightened in his hair, a flash of _pain_ yanking his attention back to the present. 

“The more you lie,” Stiles’s breath washed over Peter’s face, goosebumps springing up on his skin and _oh._ Peter shuddered. _He’s inside me._ So quick and smooth that Peter barely noticed before slick sweat gathered at his brow and lower back the longer he remained transfixed by Stiles. “The worse your mind will hurt and _fight_ for the truth.” 

Peter’s jaw ached from the effort it took to hold it shut, to not immediately give in to the agony and just tell the truth. He breathed harshly through his nose, his arms shaking under the ropes. He squeezed his eyes shut, only to open them immediately when Stiles gently pressed his thumbs beneath them. _Eyes on me._ Brown eyes were his salvation, pink lips were the alter he’d happily weep and burn atop. 

“Tell me why you’re in Vegas, Mr. Hale.” 

Fighting against the fire that burned in his blood, Peter forced a lie past his lips. 

“Vacation. Wanted to gamble.” 

Sweat dripped in his eyes and he didn’t need to see Stiles’s face to know the young man grimaced. The back of a leather glove caressed his cheek. Searing molton _pain_ tore agonized howls from his throat. He thrashed in his chair, arms jerking but the ropes holding him in place. 

“Peter,” Stiles’s voice was calm, crystal clear even as Peter’s flesh bubbled and burned. “The more you lie, the worse it will hurt. I promise,” the scent of burning flesh faded as Peter healed, though the tingling sting remained. “Once you tell me why you’re here, you will feel so much better.” 

Peter wanted to last longer, he wanted to draw it out to really see what Stiles could do, but he could barely restrain himself from vomiting, the more he waited, the worse it became. Stiles’s hands were welcome weights on his shoulders. If it weren’t for those two palms, Peter was sure his soul would have shaken out of his body. 

He pulled air into his lungs, his shirt soaked through with sweat and bewilderment. 

“For you.” The fire remained, and he heard the tiniest gasp. “I want you,” Peter gagged, “please, _please,_ it’s true, I want you in my Pack—”

It began as a feather-light brush against his forehead. 

Relief trickled down his spine like ice, frost soothing the fire until all that remained was… bliss.

Unlike anything Peter had ever felt before. 

“Oh my God.” His body was numb, any ache he ever experienced in his life was suddenly erased and replaced with a cozy warmth. His muscles were sluggish to respond. “You are… even better than I could have ever imagined. I thought the stories had the typical hyperbolic veneer but…” Peter’s head fell back. “This is everything I wanted and _more.”_

He heard the other wolves talking and he didn’t care. Stiles was still between his legs, his breaths coming quicker. 

“I don’t want to be a part of a Pack.” 

“Mm.” Peter sat up, nodding as his pinpricks of delight tickled his toes. “And neither do I. These,” he tried to wave his hand and the ropes stopped him. With a flash of claws and a flick of his wrist, they fell to the floor. He cleared his throat. “These wolves follow rules that have been obeyed for centuries. We’re _better_ than that. You,” Peter stood and was delighted to see that Stiles was just an inch shorter than him, a mouthwatering flush slowly working its way down his neck, “are better than that.” 

Peter swayed on his feet. The lights dulled to a candlelight flicker, until the wolves that lined the walls were cast in shadow. Stiles was bathed in gold light, gorgeous even as his throat bobbed. 

“Mr. Hale—”

“Please, call me Peter.” He stepped forward, and Stiles took a half-step back, still sharing the same air. “I wouldn’t pay you for your time. I’d want you there of your own desire. It’s not just wolves, it’s the best of the best, no hierarchy.” 

Someone shouted, probably Deucalion. Stiles held up his hand, and the shouting stopped. 

“You should sit down.” 

“I’m serious, Stiles. Money… money is _cheap,_ but real innovation, intellect… it should _never_ be bought.” 

Peter had to push the words out, the bubbles of floaty pleasure becoming annoying. Stiles didn’t touch him, merely gestured back towards the chair. Peter captured Stiles’s right hand in his, lifting those hypnotic, leather fingers to his lips. Stiles reared back, his gasp ringing out like a bullet. 

Peter got three and a half glorious seconds of Stiles’s scent filling his nostrils, of watching those brown eyes blow to black as he dragged his lips under Stiles’s sleeve, getting a taste of milky skin… before he was ripped away and thrown to the ground. 

The wind was knocked out of his lungs, but he was too blissed out to care. 

Deucalion bellowed about _the very simple rule_ that Peter refused to follow. Kira threw her body between the tasteless Alpha and Peter. She said something, low and dark. Static tingled on his skin, it somehow cut through the heavy blanket of pleasant detachment. 

Kira’s fingers tightened on Peter’s jacket and he lost consciousness. 

::::

By the time he came back to his senses, he was on a cheap mattress in an even cheaper motel room. He blinked his eyes into focus and immediately scowled. 

“That water stain is horrendous.” 

The bed dipped. Silky black hair fell onto his face as Kira leaned over him. 

“Oh, good. You’ve come back to your senses.” Her hands were cool against his cheek. She smoothed his hair back, helping him sit up. “How do you feel?”

“Wrung out. My mouth is—”

“Here.” Kira had a bottle of water ready. “One of their Betas warned about dry mouth.” Water had never tasted so good. He never noticed the _dimensions_ that reflected in every drop, even in a room-temperature plastic bottle from the minibar. “I think her name was Erica. She was… helpful. Once Deucalion let us leave, she helped me call a cab.” Kira took the empty bottle and immediately gave him a new one. “It was nice of her.” She dragged her palm down his back. “Was it really that powerful of an experience?” 

Peter wiped his mouth. 

“Absolutely.” He shuddered at the memory of it. “Kira, there were no words for it. Nothing that comes _close.”_ Peter smiled, tilting his head back, relishing the aches and pains left in his body. “We’re staying in Vegas.” 

Kira grinned, crooked and quick. 

::::

“Don’t touch me!” Stiles shouted as he staggered backwards, the memory of Peter’s lips on his wrist throbbing in time to his heartbeat. He was blushing, he was nauseous, and he couldn’t _stand_ the looks being thrown his way. Deucalion made a move closer to him and Stiles flinched. “I said don’t _fucking_ touch me.” 

He slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and had barely twisted the lock before his lungs seized. He fell back onto the marble floor and kicked his legs until his back was pressed against the massive sunken bath. His hands shook as he carefully peeled off his gloves, placing the left one far away from the right, taking care not to touch the croton oil he’d brushed on the leather. 

“Fuck.” Stiles had been so _stupid._ Flirting with some stranger in Las Vegas, where he was working… and then letting himself be swayed by that stranger’s words. Promises of a Pack that wasn’t weighed down by dumb tradition, all coming from an opium-loose tongue. Even though Peter was adamant, confident even when he was drugged up to his eyes, it was massively _stupid._

Traditions never changed, especially werewolf traditions. 

_I need to stop,_ Stiles struggled to regain control over his frenzied breathing. _It’s gone on too long._ The shouting outside began to die down and Stiles needed to pull his shit together, he needed to keep breathing before his limbs went numb. Every time he closed his eyes he felt Peter’s breath tickle his wrist skin Peter’s fingers began to lift his sleeve, the material catching on the syringes strapped three inches above his wrist. _Time to move on._

Money had been earned. Stiles had more than he knew what to do with. He sent most of it to his father, the other half was kept at Finstock’s trailer. Stiles had enough stowed away to disappear. 

Three knocks had Stiles lift his head up from between his knees. 

“Stiles,” Deucalion’s voice drifted through the door, “Are you all right?”

_Fuck no._

“Y-Yeah. Give me a second. I’ll be right out.” 

Stiles carefully pulled his gloves back on, patted his face dry, and breathed deep and counted each breath. He waited for his lungs to stop seizing before he opened the door. 

The living room was in disarray, a table knocked to the side, broken glass around the chair Peter had been tied to. Peter was nowhere to be seen. Lydia sat at the bar, shoulders rigid. Stiles avoided her gaze, pretending he couldn’t feel her eyes on his body when he grabbed the gym bag of cash. 

“We’ve escorted him from the building,” Deucalion offered.“He’ll be out of Vegas by tomorrow.” 

Stiles nodded, his mind already racing ahead to how quickly he could dismantle his lab, get all his shit into a car, and race back out to Finstock’s trailer. He didn’t care where Peter was, just as long as he wasn’t _here_ and he wasn’t touching Stiles in front of a room full of wolves who had been barred from ever laying a finger on his skin. He _knew_ his eyes were red-rimmed and he _knew_ he must stink of frizzling anxiety. Stiles made sure to keep his arms at his sides, to keep his posture as neutral as possible as he feigned nonchalance with Deucalion.

“Do you need me for anything else, or can I call it a night?” 

“No,” Deucalion’s hand hovered between them before withdrawing quickly. “Please, get some rest.” 

Stiles nodded, jaw tight, and rode down the elevator with Kali and Ennis bracketing his shoulders. When the doors opened and the air-conditioned lobby air hit his face, Stiles allowed himself to breathe. He was out of the elevator before the doors finished opening. Boyd’s eyes widened and he adjusted his pace to keep up with Stiles, hurrying to open the door for him. 

Erica sat in the driver’s seat, her eyes catching Stiles’s in the rear-view mirror. 

“Are you okay?” 

Stiles shook his head, his lower lip quivering before he dug his teeth into the soft flesh, hoping the pain would make it stop. 

“No.” 

She sped all the way back to the Block. 

The moment Stiles had shut the door and secured the four locks and chain he ripped off his gloves and flung them to the side. His fingers shook as he loosened the straps on his harnesses, peeling off the syringes and managing to put them on his night table. He didn’t bother taking off his clothes before he turned on the shower, the icy spray freezing his lungs, letting him clench and shudder, while the cold kept his mind arrested in the present. 

By the time Stiles had turned off the water, the hysterical shrieking in his mind had quieted to an annoying buzz. He peeled off his sopping wet shirt, pants, socks, and shoes. Shivers wormed down his spine as he sat on his bed. 

Within the safety of his headphones, his leg bounced five times for every ring down the line until _finally_ Isaac picked up. 

_“Stiles?”_ The smile that Stiles could hear warmed and broke his heart all in one painful wring between guilt’s talons. _“Hey man, how’s it going? It’s been a while.”_

“I know. I should… I need to get better at calling.” Stiles sighed, texting Finstock as he struggled to speak past the lump of _guilt-anger-relief_ that came whenever he thought about Beacon Hills. “I… I’m gonna quit this job I’m on and I was wondering if the invitation to come visit was still open.” 

Isaac gasped as Stiles hit _SEND_ on a message to Bobby. 

_“Y-Yeah. Of course, anytime, we’d be happy to have you.”_ Relief hit Stiles like a truck, his body going slack, and his breath must have pushed out too fast because Isaac perked up. _“Are you okay?”_

“I will be,” Stiles wasn’t sure if that was the truth or not. He was suddenly unsure of so much, and he couldn’t afford to let his lungs hitch and freeze. “It will take a month or two to wrap up here, but… once that’s over, I’ll be coming to you.” _Is it okay if I bring a friend,_ Stiles didn’t ask. _Have you seen my father? Did he look okay?_ Stiles swallowed those questions down with a tight throat. “Did anyone come around asking about me?” 

The pause on the other line brewed a vicious migraine, that didn’t dissipate when Isaac’s breath crackled down the line. 

_“No. Stiles, are you **sure** you’re alright?”_

Stiles’s phone buzzed. He opened the text. 

_Of course. That’s not even a question, I said anytime, I meant any fucking time._

The tumorous knots of anxiety quivered, and one tight ball loosened by a centimeter. 

“Yeah,” Confidence warmed his body as he texted Finstock back, “I’m good. Don’t worry about me.” Stiles stepped into his lab, eyes sweeping over his inventory. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

He hung up and called Finstock. 

It only rang once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh sorry this took so long, things have been turbulent in my real life, now more than ever. A mixture of family crisis and long simmering issues finally coming to a head, it’s been a hellish week that’s only going to get worse for the next ten days. So… haha, if you like my fic, keep me in your thoughts, hopefully by September, things will be back to normal.
> 
> All sad things aside, I am GLAD to finally get this out. [_**The Olympics AU**_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19621804/chapters/46529518) (which has started if you’re interested in that!) took a lot of my attention. Though I’m happy to be back here, exploring some seedier sides of these sweethearts. I hope this wasn’t too tedious or exposition heavy, it was… fun but at the same time, I was really anxious. I hope you like it, though even if you didn’t let me know!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!
> 
> The art is by the amazing [**trashiny-draws**](https://trashiny-draws.tumblr.com/) who was so nice to make these for me. Give them love!


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